Change of Heart
by S. Faith
Summary: Nothing is unbreakable. One more possible future for Mark and Bridget. Much angst to be had.
1. Chapter 1: One Last Chance

**Change of Heart**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 5,746 (this chapter)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary<span>: Nothing is unbreakable.  
><span>Disclaimer<span>: The known-quantity characters—including their creation, their backstory and history—I don't own. This story (and situations described therein) is mine. Arguably M.'s as well.  
><span>Notes<span>: One more possible future for Mark and Bridget. Much angst to be had.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1: One Last Chance<strong>

It was all his fault; that was what Mark told himself. If he'd had better rein on his eldest, his bright but somewhat mouthy son, none of the rest of it would have happened.

…

The telephone rang, and though it was rarely for Mark, he was closest to it. "Darcy residence," he said.

There was a pause before the caller spoke. "Yes, hello. Is this Mr Mark Darcy?" The voice was crisp and aged, and was one with which Mark had unfortunately become very familiar. He tamped down the urge to exhale loudly even as he felt his blood pressure rise.

"This is he, Headmaster Johnson. To what do I owe the pleasure of hearing from you today?"

"I think you know full well, sir, that no pleasure is involved," said Johnson, then let out a breath. When he spoke again his voice was stern yet sympathetic. "I have had to suspend your son for a week for unbecoming conduct."

"What has he done," Mark asked, his inflection making it sound more like a statement than a question.

"Confronted Ethan Hawthorne and assaulted him verbally." The headmaster cleared his throat; Mark had felt the sinking feeling at hearing the word 'assault', mollified slightly by the fact that it was not a physical one. "He did not care for the way Hawthorne was treating a younger student." He paused. "I trust the name Hawthorne is familiar to you."

It was. Ethan Hawthorne's father, Victor, had been a rising star in the Tory party, champion for education and learning, and was now experiencing an extended zenith. "Yes, Headmaster."

"Mr Darcy, you have my sympathies," he said, "but I have no choice in the matter."

"I understand," Mark replied, and he did; rules existed for a reason.

"I would ask that you make arrangements to pick him up by noon tomorrow," said the headmaster.

Mark heard the floorboard on the threshold into the room creak just as he replied, "I'll be there."

"Excellent," he said, then sighed. "I will be unable to offer any further chances to your boy. Do I make myself clear?

"Indeed, sir," Mark replied.

They exchanged goodbyes, then Mark placed the phone back on the receiver. He closed his eyes and let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding in, then turned to face his wife. Even in his state, he appreciated how lovely she remained, how unchanged she was in his eyes; there she stood in jeans and a brightly coloured top, her blonde hair pulled into a sloppy twist, her bright blue eyes inquisitive and as concerned as her expression.

"Who was that?" she asked. "Is it your mother?"

"Headmaster Johnson," said Mark. On the subject of the headmaster he did not have to explain the gravity of the situation. "Aidan is suspended for a week for fighting."

"Thank God," she said in a small voice; it took him a moment to realise she meant her words in the sense that the call did not relate to his mother, not that Aidan had been suspended, though she would surely be glad to see her son. "For a moment there I wished I still smoked! Is he all right? What happened?"

"It was not a physical fight," he said, stemming her concern. "It was in the name of speaking up for another boy."

"That's all?" she asked.

"That's enough, isn't it?" he retorted hotly.

She pursed her lips. "I meant that's all he did to get suspended? Boys argue all the time. Why suspension?"

"Sorry." He felt terrible that he had assumed the worst of her words; he just often felt he had so little influence over his own son that he took it personally when it seemed she was saying he was overreacting. "The headmaster referred to it as a verbal assault," said Mark, "and the boy at the receiving end is Victor Hawthorne's son."

He knew she recognised the name; she had certainly made enough disparaging remarks about the man's politics. The look of disgust on her face confirmed it. "Ah," she said in comprehension, then went to him to embrace him. "Ridiculous, politics are. I'm sorry."

He folded her into his arms and held her close, feeling the immediate calming effect of having her there. "Thank you," he murmured.

"I'm just glad he didn't actually touch the kid," she said softly. "What he and his father have might be contagious."

This caused him to chuckle, momentarily tightening his embrace; even if they still had differences of opinion after more than two decades together (nearly eighteen of those married), he was very grateful to have her at his side.

"You know what this means," he said.

"Hmm?" she asked.

"We will have to present a united front," he said. "This is his last chance to stay in Eton, and we must be equally stern."

She did not respond right away, and when she did, she drew back to speak. "Maybe we need to hear Aidan's side first."

"It doesn't matter what he says," Mark replied.

"Doesn't matter?" she asked in utter disbelief.

"I don't mean it doesn't matter at _all_," Mark corrected. "Obviously I want him to have a balanced sense of fairness. Regardless of his motivations, though, it's still his last chance."

She pursed her lips once again. "If _they_ had taken his motivations into account," she said, "he wouldn't have been suspended. At least you as his father should feel a little compassion."

He brought his thumb and forefinger to the corners of his eyes. "Don't put words in my mouth," he said quietly. "There are two separate issues here: one is standing up for those who cannot stand up for themselves, a point of view I think you'd agree I support, given my line of work. The other is getting kicked out of the best possible school for him, which is in danger of occurring because of childish methods for following through on the first point, regardless for what actually occurred between him, Ethan, and this third boy."

At this she pursed her lips again. "You don't have to scold me, Mark, like you're scolding him. Perhaps just a greater emphasis on the first point than the second in your approach. Be on your son's side."

He was about to retort that he _was_ on his son's side and to question whether she was on her husband's, but the appearance of his daughter Lizzie prevented that from occurring.

"Mum? Dad? What's wrong?"

He willed his expression to soften; smiling, he reached out his arm toward his little girl Elisabeth, who already at age eleven looked very much like her mother but was very much like her father in demeanour and personality, often too thoughtful and serious. "Nothing you should worry about, Lizzie."

As she embraced him, he offered the other to his wife, who, with a small smile, accepted it; the three of them hugged until Lizzie asked solemnly, "I still want to know what's wrong."

"Your brother," said Bridget. "He's got to come home for a week because he's been suspended. He was in a fight at school."

She furrowed her fine brows. "Did he knock someone out?"

"No."

"Did he at least get in a good punch?" she asked.

"It was not a physical fight," said Mark just as he'd said to her mother, struggling to contain his amusement at how like her Lizzie was in that moment.

"He was suspended for shouting?" Lizzie asked with incredulity, again so like her mother. "That's dumb."

Bridget kissed her daughter on the head. "I agree."

"When does he come back?" Lizzie asked. It was very disconcerting to have two pairs of near-identical blue eyes looking back to him.

"Tomorrow," he said. "I'll have to go and get him."

"Oh!" Lizzie said excitedly. "Can I go? Can we all go?"

He looked at Bridget, who returned the look. "I know you're excited to see your brother," Bridget said tentatively, "but it's not a holiday, Lizzie. It's a punishment."

He knew she would have preferred they all go, but he appreciated her effort to be on his side. "You can see him when I bring him back."

Lizzie sulked a little. "Okay," she said resignedly. "I'll even make him a snack and everything when he comes back." With that she kissed each parent on the cheek—she was still of an age when this was not an embarrassment—then went out of the room.

"But I can go with you, right?"

He turned to Bridget, who looked at him with a hopeful smile.

"I would prefer to go on my own," he said. "Not that I don't love your company."

She nodded. "I understand. Man-talk." She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, a sure-fire signal she was hesitant about saying something. "I know you want what's best for Aidan," she began. "I do too. I hope you know I'm on your side, Mark. I promise I'll stay there."

He reached to embrace her again, then gave her a kiss. He did not doubt the veracity of what she said, even though he knew they had divergent ideas on how to accomplish this goal. Bridget knew how much having his son attend Eton meant to Mark, and she had supported her husband since before they'd had children. Even though she'd hated the very idea of sending Aidan away, she had agreed anyway because she knew how important it was for Mark. For that he loved her even more.

He went to pull away from her but she gently reclaimed his lips, placing her hands on his face to delicately cradle it as she kissed him thoroughly. "There," she said, then added wickedly, "hopefully that will tide you over until after supper, when I can shag you properly."

He smiled at her phrasing, then nodded. "I'll suffer through it somehow."

Tenderly she brushed her fingers over his face, then, with another little smile, she retreated to get back to fixing supper. She must have known he had a task yet to accomplish: calling his son to arrange a meeting place.

Mark approached the telephone, eyeing it warily as if it were a mortal enemy. He reached and dialled his son's number, and as he did, he pondered his sixteen-year-old progeny. Mark was not a superstitious man, but perhaps he should have, after all, done a little research into what his son's name had meant before agreeing to it: 'the little fiery one.' He had inherited his father's intellectual aptitude (not that his mother was any slouch in that department), grasp of logic and sense of justice, but his mother's inability to keep his mouth shut when he should. It had gotten him in trouble more times than Mark could count, even if the majority of those times the boy had in fact been in the right.

Mark situated himself on the sofa to phone his son in comfortable circumstances. Aidan had the sense to answer the phone (and not avoid his father's call) with appropriate humility in his voice.

"Hi, Dad."

Mark dispensed with formalities. "You know why I'm calling."

He did not respond immediately. "Yes," he said. "I'll be ready to go by noon."

"Ten," he said. "I have court in the afternoon."

Aidan was silent for many moments, but sounded thoroughly chastened when he said, "Yes, Dad." After a pause, he added, "I'm really sorry. I never dreamt they'd—"

"Suspend you?" Mark completed.

"Yes."

"Would you have still done what you did if you thought they might've?"

"I didn't do anything but speak up," he said. "I wasn't even disrespectful. That arse Hawthorne—"

"Watch your tongue," scolded Mark.

"Sorry—Hawthorne is a coward in a bully suit. Anyone stands up to him in any way, he goes crying to his father, who then swoops in and bullies the headmaster into protecting his kid." Aidan snorted a sarcastic laugh. "Like father, like son."

He thought his son was probably right. "We'll talk about this more tomorrow," Mark said. "Your mother's got supper ready any minute now."

"Okay," he said, reverting to a more passive demeanour. "I'll see you at ten."

After they said their goodbyes, he replaced the telephone onto the receiver then exhaled loudly. He had a few moments to himself to recover his composure and calm his shaking hands, the residual effect of his adrenaline-inducing anger, before rising and walking towards the dining room, where the sight of his beautiful wife and daughter filled his heart with joy, particularly as they greeted him with equally loving smiles.

The evening to follow was one like many other: spirited conversation over their meal along with plenty of laughter; assisting his daughter with homework when she needed it then making sure she was tucked in (figuratively more than literally) by her bedtime; retiring to the master bedroom earlier than usual both due to the morning drive and the time they had promised to one another previously, because even if intimacy was offered in jest he intended on taking her up on it.

In this respect she had not lost her youthful enthusiasm, either; she was still very receptive to his touch, very evidently still quite desirous of him and their lovemaking. One of the things he was thankful for in all the world was that she was still as eager to sleep with him as he was with her. She was still all he needed, even if (as they had sometimes joked) they didn't have the libidos of newlyweds anymore.

Their sex life had suffered a bit of a blow when the children were younger, but never due to a lack of interest, just a lack of time and energy. Once the children had gotten older, they had keenly reclaimed that part of their relationship. They did so again now, leaving Mark in a state of sheer bliss as he drifted to sleep.

…

"You sure you don't want me to come with?"

As Mark slipped on his socks, Bridget's quiet voice sounded from behind him.

"I'm sure, darling," he said.

"You don't have to be all stoic and 'go it alone'," she reminded.

"I know," he said curtly, then sighed. "Sorry. I just don't want to make a big production out of this with an entire procession of family." He turned to look at her; she was looking up at him with wide eyes that had, on so many occasions, tested his willpower. He would be firm this time. "Maybe you can help Lizzie with her proposed snack, treat, or whatever it was she had in mind. Keep her from burning the kitchen down."

Bridget smiled, then laughed a little. "She does sort of take after me in that respect, doesn't she? Though goodness knows she's better than I was at that age."

"Or later," he teased, laughing low in his throat, memories of blue soup and orange marmalade for dinner coming to the forefront of his mind and probably hers too. He leaned forward, brushed her hair out of her eyes then gave her a kiss. "I'll see you when we're back."

"Okay," she replied.

The closer he got to Eton the more apprehensive he felt; logically he knew it was ridiculous to think that all eyes would be upon him with scorn and disdain as he arrived to pick up his son, but he felt that way all the same.

Before he knew it, he had his too-silent son in the passenger seat of the car and were winding their way back towards their London home.

"And you've got your laptop," asked Mark, "and your books for your schoolwork?"

"Yes," replied Aidan. After a pause, he asked, "Are you all right? You've asked me that three times already."

Mark's jaw tensed. "I'm just a little worried about court." He glanced to his son, wanted to say that it was because his focus was gone due to the situation at hand, but did not think making Aidan feel guilty about that would be helpful. "I'm sure it will be fine, though. Nothing I haven't done before."

"That's good," said Aidan in a small voice. He then cleared his throat. "You know I'm really sorry about this."

"I know you are," said Mark. "The best way you can prove you're sorry is to not let it happen again."

Aidan didn't speak in response, and when traffic slowed to a standstill Mark turned to look at his son. His posture and expression spoke of sadness, and Mark wished at that moment that Bridget was with them. She always knew how to best console Aidan.

"I just… wanted to make sure you could stay on top of your work," Mark went on in a more neutral tone, falling back on the previous exchange about the books rather than prolong the awkward silence that now filled the car. Traffic eased forward again. "You've been having a good term, I trust?"

"Yeah," he said at last. "Classes have been very good. Challenging. I like that."

Mark smiled. Of course he liked a challenge. "Aidan," he said, "I hope you know I'm always proud of you."

Mark glanced over in time to see a fleeting smile cross Aidan's lips. "I know, Dad." He looked up and met his gaze, then offered a wider smile. "I think Mum will have a litter of kittens when she sees me. I'm your height now."

It hadn't really registered earlier, but it was certainly true and surprising for so short a time, and it made Mark grin. "So you are," he said, looking to the road again. "Your sister is looking forward to seeing you."

"She looks forward to me going too," said Aidan, his tone light.

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder."

"Lizzie must've sprouted up since I saw her last," said Aidan. "She as tall as Mum yet?"

"Not quite," said Mark, "but I expect she'll be there soon."

"Much longer apart from 'er and we might not have recognised each other," Aidan quipped.

Mark consciously knew that his son had spent a good portion of the last few years away at Eton, came home for breaks, but never had he considered how their relationship as siblings might have suffered for it. He really couldn't speak reassuringly regarding sibling bonds; he did not have any siblings, nor did his wife.

"Dad," added Aidan. "I'm kidding."

In his relief, Mark chuckled suddenly, then said as he shot a glance to Aidan, "I knew that. I think you'd recognise your sister anywhere. After all, she's the spitting image of your mum."

At this, Aidan chuckled. Mark could feel the tension dissipate.

Upon their arrival at the house, Bridget stared at her son as if he had sprouted a second head; her mouth gaped in surprise and eyes were wide as she looked up at him.

"What on earth are they feeding you there?" she said, then with a smile reached up and embraced him. "My God, how you've grown," she added, her voice clearly choked with a sob.

"Aidan!"

This from Lizzie, who offered a big grin as she dashed down the stairs and ran to tackle her brother with a ferocious hug. "You're as tall as Dad!"

"And you do look like Mum," Aidan said, flashing his mother a grin that made her lower lip tremble. "It's really good to be home."

"Remember this is no holiday," Mark said. He didn't think he sounded too paternal and serious in tone, but the three of them looked at him as if he had just rained on their parade or kicked a starving puppy. Bridget shot him a look that spoke of her irritation. He was sure he would hear about it later, but for now he had to get to court, so he kissed his wife goodbye. "Don't drive your mum crazy," he said, kissing Lizzie's cheek; "Well, crazier than she already is." They all three apparently forgot their offense and laughed. On his way out, he offered a half-smile, then patted Aidan's shoulder affectionately as he left.

Mark was able to immerse himself in his work that afternoon. He successfully argued his point and won the case, so was predisposed to be in a good mood upon arriving home. When he did, he was greeted by the sound of lively, happy voices in conversation from the lower level, presumably as dinner was being prepared.

He was immediately conflicted. On one hand, it warmed his heart to think of his family engaged and together in such a vignette of domestic bliss; on the other hand, it reminded him that his only son was unexpectedly home specifically because he had been suspended for a week. He exhaled then set his attaché down, stepped out of his shoes and slipped off his suit jacket; as an afterthought, he also tugged at the knot in his tie to loosen then remove it.

He went down the stairs, purposely refraining from announcing himself, and was greeted by exactly the scene he'd imagined; Lizzie was stirring a pot of boiling water, Bridget was sprinkling herbs into a bubbling pot of tomato sauce, and Aidan was approaching the cupboard where their dishes were stored. As he did, he called something to his mother that he did not quite hear about the china, and she laughed and replied, "No, just the regular dishware. It's just us. No royalty slated to attend."

"Oh, I'm wounded," came Aidan's response. "You don't consider me a prince?"

"A prince of dustbins, perhaps," she said, "which will need your attention this evening."

"Who does it when I'm not here?"

"The evil twin we keep locked up in the shed."

"I thought I was the evil twin."

At this Bridget laughed and said, "Catch." As she said this she picked up a small tomato and pitched it at him; quick as lightning he turned and caught it.

"Ha. Evil twin has terrible reflexes," said Bridget.

With a grin Aidan set the tomato down. "If I hadn't caught it you would have said the evil twin has good reflexes," Aidan said, then turned to reach for the plates. Bridget smirked, which verified this guess. Mark felt wistful at witnessing this interaction; Bridget and Aidan had always had a closer bond with one another, had been free from the sort of tensions with which his own relationship with Aidan had been fraught. He envied that closeness and had no idea how to bring it about without obliterating the ideals of father/son dynamic to which he subscribed.

It was then that Bridget spotted Mark and smiled at him. "Just in time," she said. "We're almost ready."

He smiled too. "It smells wonderful," he said, going for the table, where Aidan's notebook computer was sitting along with some papers and a pen. He intended on picking up the notebook only to move it to the breakfast nook and out of the way of dinner, but his gaze slid over the screen and quite against his will he began to read the text there.

It was obviously schoolwork of some variety, an essay he was writing on women's rights throughout the twentieth century. His eyes only skimmed over but what he read truly impressed him, not only for the quality of the writing but the choice in topic, which Mark would not have considered typical for a sixteen-year-old boy. As he set down the notebook computer he noticed Aidan looking to him.

"Is that for class?" Mark asked.

Aidan nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Nice work," he said. "I mean, only just looked at it briefly, but… it's very good."

Aidan smiled. "Do you think?" he asked. "I mean, you would probably know a lot about these things…"

"If you like I'll read it when you're done," he said.

At this offer Aidan seemed reluctant.

"I promise not to take your head off," Mark added. "I'm pretty good at constructive criticism."

Aidan allowed a small smile. "If it isn't too much trouble."

"I wouldn't have offered," Mark replied, patting Aidan's shoulder. "For now, we should worry about our immediate future, and lay out the table before your mother gives us the evil eye."

"Was just preparing to," came Bridget's teasing voice.

Dinner was delicious. As it turned out, the pasta dish was Lizzie's idea, and the preparation for it was done mostly by her. "I can do pasta, and do it well," she said proudly.

As they talked over dinner, although he was fully engaged, Mark began to feel as if he were witnessing the conversation as a third party, outside of the scene, and it evoked a sort of melancholy in him that left him torn. The opportunity for all of them to be together like this on any ordinary night was marvellous, but Mark knew the price to pay for his son to continue the family tradition was for Aidan to be away, at Eton.

Retiring to the bedroom that evening, Mark was caught in his tracks by a lingering and almost too-apologetic look from his wife.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I wasn't as stern with Aidan as I promised I'd be. I'm sorry." Her tone was sheepish, but she was unable to fully hide the extent of her happiness at having her son home for a week and sooner than she'd expected, before the much-anticipated long break at the end of October. This irritated him unexpectedly; it was not as if he were some kind of soulless monster who was not happy to see his son.

The feel of her fingers stroking gently on his upper arm startled him and he looked to her, saw the loving expression he had become so fond of seeing mixed with an obvious concern. In a moment his irritation disappeared. He smiled.

"I was just going to ask you what was wrong," she said tenderly. "If I was not actually forgiven."

He turned and took her into his arms. "I know you're happy to have him home," he murmured. "But—"

She drew back. "I know," she said solemnly, then smiled and lifted herself up to steal a kiss. He gladly relinquished it to her, and always would.

…

As the week went on, as he spent time at home with Aidan (who was as good as his word in doing his work and then some), Mark realised that his wife was right. As he observed Aidan and Lizzie playing Scrabble together, as they all watched the telly together, he saw first hand that the family dynamic was best with Aidan home.

On Saturday, Mark headed for his office on the main floor of the house; he had already been mentally reviewing papers for court on Monday morning and thought with the drive back to Eton Sunday night, he might as well get down to actually doing so now. However, the faint buzz of crowd noise caught his attention; he realised the telly must have been on in the sitting room. He diverted his path there to see if anyone was actually watching the unit, because Lizzie had a bad habit of leaving the room to take a phone call and forgetting to turn it off. He was surprised to see Aidan there typing into his notebook computer.

"Working?" asked Mark; he had always discouraged doing homework in front of the television.

"Nah, finished that up days ago," said Aidan. "I was just goofing around online." He shut the notebook, and pointed to the screen. "Newcastle versus Arsenal."

Mark came around and sat on the sofa, thoughts of paperwork fleeing his head. "Really?" he asked. "When did it start?"

"About fifteen minutes ago." Aidan chuckled. "Mum and Lizzie were here but as soon as the match began they suddenly decided they had to be elsewhere."

Mark chuckled; this sounded typical. "Any scores yet?"

Aidan nodded. "Newcastle."

"Of course," Mark said proudly. "Showing a bit of their old spunk."

"They've been bollocks for years."

Mark made a dismissive sound. "When your mother and I first met…" He thought fondly of their first Valentine's, when she had so thoughtfully given him the silly keychain and boxers; silly, but they had meant more to him than any expensive trinkets might have. "Well, you know. There are cycles. This is an up-cycle."

Aidan grinned, then reached for his can of cola. "If you say so," he replied. "They've been bollocks for as long as I can recall."

Aidan's knowledge of football surprised Mark a little; in between the action they had a rather lengthy discussion about the game, the current state of the organisation, the greatest players in recent memory and those that were overrated.

"And that guy," said Aidan spiritedly, stabbing his finger at the screen. "For all they've built him up, he is the worst of the lot."

"Agreed," said Mark. "He was supposed to be the saviour of the club, right?"

"Yeah. And Newcastle's clearly been saved," he said, his voice laden with sarcasm.

"Now, that's not nice," came a third voice; he turned to see that Bridget had come in and was hovering at the door wearing a smug expression on her face. "Obviously he's got some redeeming qualities."

"Like what?" snorted Mark.

"Well," she began, watching as the player in question stood discussing something with his teammates. "He's got a nice backside. That's got to count for something."

In unison the two of them began to laugh unabashedly. "Mum," said Aidan, amusement (and perhaps a little embarrassment) evident in his voice, "that isn't very helpful in actually playing football."

"Sure it is," she said defensively. "If you've got a flabby bottom you can't be very athletic…" She trailed off as they erupted into laughter once more; even still, she seemed unaffected by their apparent insult. "I'll just leave you two to your match, then." After a pause, she added, "Want something to eat?"

They both nodded. Over the back of the couch Mark felt her lean to kiss him on the top of his head, then did the same for her son before brushing the hair on the tops of their heads with her fingers.

In what felt like no time at all she returned with a tray, sandwiches cut into odd shapes, another cola for Aidan, and a chilled Newcastle Brown for Mark. He chuckled at her always unique method for quartering a sandwich, looked up to her and kissed her when she bent for it. "Thank you, darling," he said.

"Any time," she said.

"Thanks Mum," added Aidan belatedly. His attention had clearly been taken up by the match again. Mark's was too as he reached for the beer and a piece of sandwich; he thought about asking her to stay, suddenly delighted (despite the presence of their child) with the idea of her taking a perch on his knee, but he realised she had already gone.

"Mum makes the best sandwiches," said Aidan distractedly, then took a giant bite out of another of his pieces.

"Mmm," he assented.

The matched turned out to be favourable for Newcastle, leaving him and his son in high spirits for the rest of the day. For Mark, the beer probably had a little to do with it too.

After Bridget asked him what he wanted for supper, he thought for a moment, then said, "I think I'd like to take my family out to the pub." This surprised not only Bridget but Lizzie, who was unused to dinner out of the house.

"But don't you and Dad usually go out on Saturday together?"

"I think we're willing to make an exception," said Mark, though as he said it he realised it might be misinterpreted. "We don't always have the chance to go out all together like this." He caught the tail end of a look from Bridget; he knew what she was thinking: _Whose fault is that?_ He pushed the feeling down. He didn't want to ruin the evening with negative thoughts, ruin the week by ending it on a down note.

Though The Globe had clearly seen better days appearance-wise, dinner was as delicious as ever and all four of them had a very good night. As they returned from their fish-and-chips-laden evening, as Bridget and Lizzie headed out of the foyer and into the house, in a low tone, Aidan asked, "Dad?"

"Yes?"

"When will you be able to take me back?"

Mark considered the activities likely to be occurring on Sunday evening; reading for the next week's lessons at the forefront most likely. "Probably be best to have you back for dinner."

"Oh." Aidan tried, but could not hide his disappointment.

"Why? Did you have something else in mind?"

Aidan looked a bit hesitant. "I'd like to go back after dinner tomorrow. One last home-cooked meal with you and Mum."

Mark thought of his words to Bridget about being stricter with the boy, even as he said, "Of course."

Aidan grinned. "Thanks, Dad." He indicated his room upstairs with a hooked thumb. "Gonna go check my email and all that. If that's okay."

"You're done with your work?"

"Have been for days."

He recalled belatedly Aidan having said that earlier. "Fine, go ahead."

Aidan bounded up the stairs two at a time. Despite himself Mark let out a long exhale of breath, one that would have seemed, he realised, like a sigh to anyone who might have been passing by.

At that moment, his wife did happen to return to the foyer.

"Everything all right?" she asked.

He turned. "Of course," he said, then smiled. He was as likely to hide his own feelings from her as Aidan had been able to hide his from Mark. "I will concede it has been nice for him to be at home."

"Very big of you, Mark," she said with a teasing smirk. "Well, he'll be back for long leave in a few weeks." The wistful way in which she said it made him wonder if she was playing it up for dramatic effect. "You two seemed to have an especially nice time today."

"I didn't realise he was a football fan."

"I think there's probably a lot about him that we don't know," she said softly as she touched his arm. This he did not think was melodrama. She seemed truly affected.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, he realised she was probably right.


	2. Chapter 2: Aidan Returns

**Change of Heart**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 4,120 (this chapter)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.<span>: See Chapter 1.**  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: Aidan Returns<strong>

Returning Aidan to school was uneventful, which was exactly how Mark liked things. For the first few days after his departure he saw a marked difference in Bridget's demeanour, which was understandable; he knew she missed their son and was never good about hiding it. Fortunately she seemed her old self by the end of the week; that is to say, disruptive to his working on Friday night by sitting on the floor by the sofa he occupied, and poking at his toes.

"Bridget," he said, tone verging on stern.

"Hmm?"

"Please stop that."

Through the fabric of his sock she began to pull on the tips of his toes. "Stop what?" she asked innocently.

"Stop trying to take off my toes."

She made a dismissive sound. "I'm doing nothing of the sort," she said.

"Bridget," he said again.

"There's no court tomorrow," she said, grabbing the toe of his sock and tugging. "Come on. You don't have to work _all_ the time." Once the sock was off she began to run her fingers on his toe knuckles.

Mark dropped the papers he had been reviewing onto his lap. "What did you have in mind?" he asked suspiciously, knowing full well that Lizzie was at home.

This made her laugh as if she knew what he'd suspected her of suggesting. "I could continue to… _admire_ your nice feet," she said, "or we could play Monopoly with our daughter."

"You two are a menace with Monopoly. Scrabble, maybe."

"No way," she said. "You two gang up on me with your giant vocabularies."

It was his turn to laugh. "You have a very impressive vocabulary," he said, reaching to comb through her hair with his fingers. "Surely larger than an eleven-year-old's."

"I'm not so sure," she said.

"Though it's true that half the words you use can't be found in any dictionary I've ever seen."

"Mum, are you bugging Dad when he's trying to work?"

It was that very same eleven-year-old, standing at the door with her hands on her hips, scowling in a way that reminded Mark of himself. Bridget tried very hard not to laugh, but was not successful, looking from husband to daughter then back again. "Are you sure I gave birth to that girl?" she asked, affecting a serious tone.

"Absolutely," Mark said. He set his papers to the side and patted the sofa cushion gently to invite Lizzie over. When she sat he put his arm around her and pulled her close to peck a kiss into her hair. "You know, I don't really need to work tonight."

"No?" she asked, drawing back to look at him.

He shook his head. "And if your mother kindly returns my sock to me perhaps we can all do something fun together."

"I won't," said Bridget with a wicked smile, "because I can't guarantee once you have it you won't just go back to work. Instead you can play Scrabble with a chilly foot."

Her choosing Scrabble surprised him enough that he did not respond, and his silence was taken as acceptance. Play they did, opting for going fast and loose with the official rules; this of course resulted in Bridget inventing a very amusing imaginary word. "Use 'dororfone' in a sentence," challenged Mark.

"'I did not hear you answer the dororfone,'" Bridget said smugly.

"Fair enough, Dad," said Lizzie with a resignation beyond her years. "She did use it in a sentence."

He could no longer hold back his amusement, and chuckled as he shook his head. "Fair enough. Tally up your score."

It was his turn next; looking at his available letters and the available places on the board, he began to very thoughtfully lay down the tiles.

"'Prilious'—what's that mean?" asked Lizzie.

"It's a rare word," he said with solemnity. "It refers to pretty ladies who cheat at Scrabble."

At this Bridget burst out with a laugh and reached across to playfully punch him in the shoulder. "Fine, fine," she said. "Add it up."

Mark noticed that their daughter was looking a little disturbed. "Lizzie," he said as he calculated his points, "what's the matter?"

"I thought we were just going to be able to use proper names and so on," she said with grave concern. "I wasn't expecting fake words."

"They aren't fake," said Bridget. "They just haven't been invented until now."

Lizzie looked to her father as if she thought her mother might not be a tiny bit mad, and not for the first time.

"Why don't you give it a try?" encouraged Bridget. "Surely there are words that you think should exist but don't."

Lizzie pursed her lips, but Mark detected after a few minutes one of the corners of her mouth twitch upward. Slowly she lifted her hand and reached for her tiles, slowly laying out a non-existent word.

"'Boolit'?" asked Mark.

Lizzie nodded. "Stupid boys at school who bother me."

"Bother you?" asked Mark, his protective temper surfacing. "Bother you how?"

"You know, bragging and goofing off, and generally being obnoxious."

Bridget stifled a laugh. "She _is_ only eleven, Mark."

"And I was aged eleven once," said Mark.

"Were you a boolit, then?" queried Bridget with a smirk.

"No," he said. "But I knew plenty of them."

Bridget ended up winning the game with a nearly-all-consonant word she explained meant 'lint in your pocket for which no reasonable explanation of its presence exists'; by this point Lizzie was fully enjoying herself and declared that she liked the expanded rules very much indeed.

"I'm glad," said Bridget, reaching and giving her a quick hug around the shoulders. "Now why don't you go into the front room and pick out a film for us to watch together?"

"Okay," she said with a grin.

After she left, as Mark was putting the game board away, Bridget sighed. "Well, I think there is no further doubt," she said.

"About what?"

"That she's my daughter." She grinned. "After all, she independently invented a family-friendly version of 'fuckwit'."

Mark closed the box and smiled to himself. "Genetics will out," he said jokingly, then looked up to his wife, thinking that he could not remember not loving her like he did. "Have any thoughts beyond the film?"

She raised a single brow. "I get the feeling you do."

He smirked a little. "Mm, yes."

"And would it involve the sort of activity that resulted in our progeny?"

"Indeed," he said, "except that I'm too old for additional progeny."

"Not too old for the activity, to be sure."

"Never too old for that," he said, leaning to give her a quick kiss; as he did he heard out Lizzie declare she was putting the disc in for viewing. He chuckled and sat up. "I guess that's our cue," he said, rising to his feet. "Let's go and watch _The Wizard of Oz_ for the hundredth time."

Mark was, of course, dead right about her choice of film. Lizzie loved the idea of a tornado picking her up and transporting her to a magical, colour-saturated land, and had been supremely disappointed to learn that tornados were very uncommon in England.

By the end of the film, as expected, Lizzie was sleepy enough to be herded off to Bedfordshire; afterwards Mark took his wife by the hand and led her to their own room.

"I like when you do that," she said as he peeled her knit shirt off of her.

"Take off your shirt?" he asked, folding it in half then in half again before tossing it into the laundry hamper.

"No," she said with a chuckle. "When you lead me off to bed by the hand. It seems so… gentlemanly."

"I promise," he said, reaching for her trouser clasp, "it will be the last gentlemanly thing I do tonight."

She waggled her brows playfully at him. "Promises, promises," she said in a low voice, then got up onto her toes, slipped her arms around his neck, and kissed him deeply.

…

"Mother. So glad to see you."

Mark took his mother's hands and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Dearest Mark," she said, her fingers pressing into his skin. "I am sorry to be such a burden."

"You a burden? Hardly," he said, helping her to sit on the sofa. "I wish you had told me sooner you were coming."

"I didn't want to trouble you any more than I had to."

"That is just about the silliest thing I ever heard." This was Bridget's voice; she had just come in, too. "We could have come to pick you up in Grafton Underwood instead of you having to take the train in."

"I would have taken a cab from the station, but…." She drifted off. "I was short of cash on hand."

Bridget made a dismissive sound. "You are not a burden in the least, Elaine, and I'm happy to have gone for you," she emphasised. "In fact, I wish you'd just come live with us here and be done with it. Lizzie would love it."

Elaine did not respond, and Mark knew why: she did not want to relinquish the last thing representing her independence and her life with her husband, which was living in the house in Grafton Underwood. Mark went to his wife and with a subtle gesture called her aside, out of hearing range of his mother. "Did you manage to determine why she's in London?"

"Not really. She only mentioned an appointment."

"Is this for the Rotary's charity drive?" he asked quietly. "I could have sworn that was next month in Grafton Underwood."

"Not that kind of appointment, Mark," she said. "A doctor's appointment."

Mark felt his face drain of colour and he turned to his mother. "Mother, what's this about a doctor's appointment?"

Elaine looked embarrassed. "It's nothing," she said. "Probably nothing. Just been a little short of breath lately, and the doctor in Kettering recommended I see someone who's a bit of a specialist in this sort of thing. I didn't want you to worry."

Of course he would worry, but saying so would not help matters. He let out a quick breath. "When's the appointment?"

"Tomorrow, early morning."

"I've already offered to take her," said Bridget pre-emptively. "We're not shooting until the afternoon."

"I don't have court," said Mark. "Really, it would not be a problem."

"Mark, it's okay," Elaine said gently with a smile. "I'd really like the company of my daughter-in-law."

He tried not to feel wounded at the rejection; probably she just preferred female companionship at the doctor's, and he was, after all, quite pleased that the love and affection between his mother and his wife was so well reciprocated. He wondered if he was just overreacting, but if he was, he had a good foundation to do so; she had in the past shielded him from bad news. After all, Mark had never known how serious his father's condition was until after he had passed away.

"Besides, you've already committed to picking up Aidan," reminded Bridget.

"I'm really sure it's nothing," said Elaine, smiling.

After visiting the specialist the next day, Bridget phoned to let him know that they had run some tests, but on the whole this specialist felt nothing serious was wrong. "We're going to go shopping, Elaine, Lizzie and me," she said. "I hope you don't mind, but I've asked Elaine to stay the week. Honestly, I think her biggest problem is that she's just too lonely, and since Aidan's coming back for long leave…."

"I don't mind at all." The news actually gave him a measure of relief.

"The test results should be back before she leaves, so she gave the house number for contact."

"That seems a long time."

"They don't think it's a matter of urgency."

He didn't say anything.

"We'll have fun. Don't worry," she added in a lighter tone. "She feels fine, except for fretting over causing you worry."

At this he chuckled. "She's worried about worrying me," he said. "Tell her I'm fine."

"But I know you're not."

"Just tell her I'm fine," he said again.

After a beat, she said, "Okay, I will. Love you."

Mark went back to his paperwork to fill the time before he went to get Aidan from Eton, but in all honesty he could not focus on it. He could only think of his mother and the tests they had felt necessary to run. He wondered if Bridget had more information on what kind of test it was; he did not want to ask his mother, press for more detail and seem too worried, subsequently worrying her more.

His son had a reluctant smile on his face when he answered the door at his father's arrival. "I just got back," he said sheepishly. "I'm ready to go, but give me a minute to make sure I haven't forgotten anything."

"Sure."

He watched his son look around the room and realised that Aidan looked very preoccupied. "Everything all right?"

"Mm, yes," he said, meeting his father's gaze. "Just don't want to forget anything."

Mark suspected that it was more than that, but he didn't want to press the matter. As they walked back to the car with Aidan's things, Mark said, "By the way, your grandmother is coming to stay with us for the week."

"Granny Pam?" Aidan asked in such a way that it made Mark chuckle.

"You don't have to look so horrified," said Mark. "No, _my_ mother. Granny Elaine."

"I wasn't horrified," said Aidan with a smirk. "She's just a bit much to take in large doses."

Mark could not disagree, so he merely started the car for the drive back.

Aidan questioned the quietness of the house upon their return. "They've gone for a girls' day out," said Mark. Aidan nodded in understanding. "I think your mother said something about filming this afternoon too. Probably Lizzie and your grandmother have gone with her."

"Isn't Lizzie in school?"

"Your mother thought it necessary to excuse her for the afternoon, thought the time with her granny was more important," he said with a hint of disdain.

"You didn't agree," said Aidan perceptively.

"I don't disagree. Time with your granny is important," clarified Mark, "but skipping class for it when she'll be with us for a week seems a bit much."

"It's not as if she's truant," said Aidan with a smile. "And obviously it didn't bother you enough to fight over it."

"I didn't want to upset your grandmother," Mark said. "In the end that was what made it not worth quarrelling over."

He thought for dinner a nice stir fry over long grain rice might be nice, and it was while he was sautéing the thinly cut pork and just about to add bell pepper and carrot slices (rice happily steaming away in the rice cooker) that he heard Lizzie's unmistakable voice and stomping footfalls on the stairs to the lower level where the kitchen was. "Dad, we're home!" she said, just as her trainer-clad feet came into view.

"I could tell," said Mark wryly. He looked up in time to see her confused expression. "What is it?" he asked.

"Where's Aidan?" she asked.

"He's in charge of chopping the vegetables," said Mark. "Took a quick loo break."

"Oh," she said with a smile, then laughed. Mark knew why; Aidan was a menace in the kitchen. It pained him to think it, but it had worried Mark enough just in giving the boy a sharp knife. Fortunately he had not done any damage, but he had the green onions yet to chop.

"Hey."

Lizzie turned away from Mark to see her brother approaching, and Mark could tell just from the line of her cheek that this elicited a broad smile from her.

"Hey yourself," she said. "Long time no see."

Aidan went to the counter, took up his chopping knife again then grabbed the bunch of green onions.

"Wash your hands?" Lizzie and Mark asked in unison.

"Did," he said, then began to chop.

Over the sound of the sizzling vegetables, Mark heard his mother and his wife talking as they came down the stairs. As they reached the bottom, it relieved him greatly to see his mother looking ten times better than she had just the day before; just getting reassurance from the doctor had probably helped her demeanour.

"Oh, Mark, that smells wonderful," said Elaine with a beaming smile.

"Didn't do it on my own," said Mark, pointing with his spatula in Aidan's direction. "He helped."

"Oh!" said Elaine, brightening further, walking to where her grandson was standing. "How wonderful it is to see you!" She held out her arms and gave him a hug. "You've grown so much!" She pulled back, then glanced from Aidan to Bridget and back. "Oh, my. You're taller than your mother!"

He chuckled. "It's true. I am." Spontaneously he embraced her again then chuckled. "It's really good to see you, Gran."

Dinner was full of pleasant conversation and more than once, raucous laughter; over stir-fry Lizzie and Aidan were trading jokes that were escalating in silliness (jokes that remained clean on Aidan's part, much to Mark's relief).

After they'd eaten, Bridget enquired as to whether there was any interest in dessert. Elaine demurred. "It's been a long, tiring day, so I think I'll just go to bed early."

"Of course," Mark said, rising from his seat. "Do you need anything?"

"I'll be fine. I know where everything is," she said with a smile. "Though Bridget mentioned something about putting the clothes I bought through the washer for me…?"

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it," Bridget said. He understood: she had not packed enough for a week. "Go on upstairs and get ready for bed."

Shortly after Elaine's departure, Lizzie piped up: "I for one want that dessert." This of course caused another round of giggles.

After dessert, Bridget ensured that Elaine's newly purchased clothing got properly laundered for the week ahead (or at least the next day). They got Lizzie tucked in, said their goodnights to Aidan (at his age he tended towards the nocturnal, and they could trust him not to play loud music or do anything too raucous late at night), then retired with respective books before switching off the lights and cuddling with one another for a sound night's sleep. The thought of his family, his mother, all together under one roof was especially comforting.

…

The scent of breakfast was normally a pleasant way for Mark to wake up, but as he roused he became a little alarmed when he realised that Bridget was still in bed with him, hair tousled and softly snoring. He could not help himself from sitting bolt upright, which naturally startled his wife.

"What?" she asked, opening her eyes and sitting hastily.

He leapt up and put on his robe. "I smell bacon."

She blinked in confusion, then began to laugh. "Mark," she said, "we have our sixteen-year-old son home as well as your mother, though frankly I'd be less worried about Lizzie making bacon."

He laughed, realising that indeed it was probably his mother, which was confirmed when he and Bridget, along with Lizzie and Aidan, approached the kitchen in a half-awake, slightly shocked state to find Elaine busily stirring up a pan of scrambled eggs and cheese, and watching over a second skillet of bacon. Elaine glanced up just as they entered with a great beaming smile.

"Good morning my dears," she said. "Up with the sun, couldn't sleep, and I have so missed cooking for a crowd. Coffee's brewing, should be done very soon."

Lizzie ran up to her and gave her a hug. "Gran, you rock."

Mark went directly to the coffeepot while Bridget fetched two mugs. Mark poured then handed one to her. As she stirred in her sweetener, she asked in a confidential tone, "Breakfast waiting for us when we wake? Are you sure she won't come live with us?"

He smiled. "I'll ask her again, though I'm sure I'll get the same answer."

"Eventually perhaps we'll wear down her resistance."

At this he chuckled and leaned to kiss her on the cheek. "Come, before she takes us by the ear to get us to the table for our breakfast."

"It isn't quite done yet," piped up Elaine.

"Well," said Mark, turning to the table. "Nothing wrong with _your_ hearing." This caused the children to laugh.

They had a most enjoyable breakfast together. Elaine had certainly not lost any of her touch when it came to cooking. The children were so pleased with the whole situation that they cleared the table and did the washing up without even being asked.

The week with Aidan and his mother in the house at the same time was a very good week, though not without its imperfect moments. Mark did notice that Aidan seemed a little more distant and glum than usual in unguarded moments, though whenever he was asked about it he brightened and denying anything was wrong at all. He also came home late and past his curfew twice without much explanation other than he'd lost track of time, smelling alarmingly like smoke, though he claimed he did not himself do so.

"Mark, you're overreacting," said Bridget in the privacy of their bedroom. "He's sixteen."

"Sixteen and with a curfew," he said.

"You should have seen me at his age," she said with a smile.

He pursed his lips; he could only imagine what she was like at sixteen given that she still stayed out too late with her friends on occasion smelling of smoke and still half-pissed. "How can we be sure he isn't actually smoking?"

"I have never once found any evidence in his things," she said. "And I've asked, too. He tells me he isn't."

He felt more assured knowing that he had confided such to Bridget, but he also felt irritated because he hadn't trusted that his own son was telling him the truth.

"I still feel he's holding back on something," said Mark quietly as he sat on the edge of their bed. "I wish he'd just say what."

"I'll see what I can get out of him," said Bridget, sitting beside him. "I know sometimes he finds it easier to talk to me, for whatever reason."

With a sense of resignation Mark realised she had a better chance than anyone else of getting to the heart of the matter. "Okay."

As the week came to an end, Bridget revealed that Aidan insisted nothing was the matter, though she was not convinced this was true. "He became irritable when I asked," she said. Mark had noticed. "I only hope it's something that will pass."

…

"Dad."

Mark glanced briefly to his son as they drove on Sunday back to Eton. "What is it?"

"I… have a question for you."

"I'm all ears."

Aidan pulled his lower lip between his teeth. "I know you're pretty big in your field," he said at last. "Human rights."

He thought back to Aidan's rather excellent paper on women's rights, wondered if this was to do with some future school assignment, an end of term paper. "Ask away."

"Is there ever a time," Aidan went on unsurely, "when it is acceptable to ignore injustice against those who can't speak out for themselves?"

Mark immediately conjured up images of a sea of anguished faces whose expressions spoke of their despair and hopelessness; a scene he had himself seen on more than one occasion, in more than one locale, and it never failed to spark his righteous fury. "No," he said definitively. "The right thing is not usually the easy thing. One must fight for what is right."

Aidan said nothing, and once more Mark glanced to his son. He was staring at his hands then looked up and out the front window. "I thought you might say that," he said at last. "Thanks. It helps a lot."

Mark felt a moment of pride, that he had been able to help his son in this small way. "Do you have any other questions?" Mark asked, primed and ready to answer whatever Aidan had to ask.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Aidan shake his head, belatedly adding, "No, but thanks." He saw Aidan look towards him, so he glanced once more, saw his son smiling.

"Anytime."

He saw his son off with a fatherly hug, still within the car, before he went off towards his building, turning with a smile to wave to his father before going inside.

The next time he would see his son there would be no smiles.


	3. Chapter 3: Out

**Change of Heart**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 4,962 (this chapter)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3: Out<strong>

Since there had been no word as yet from the specialist regarding his mother's test, Mark insisted that Elaine remain with them until they did, since it would have been pointless for her to go all the way back to Grafton Underwood if she were needed for an additional visit. He rather liked having her there with them; she was unobtrusive, did not try to interfere with the running of her son and daughter-in-law's house, and did not have a single complaint to offer.

When the telephone rang late in the day on Wednesday, a day that Mark happened to be home before anyone else, he whisked up the receiver almost immediately, offering his usual greeting.

The voice that spoke to him was not a polite medical professional asking for Mrs Elaine Darcy. The voice that spoke to him immediately conjured a deeply foreboding sense of déjà vu:

"Yes, hello. Is this Mr Mark Darcy?"

It was Headmaster Johnson. Mark felt a cold chill settle in his stomach.

"Sir," Mark said. "It is. How may I help you?"

"I am sorry," the headmaster said. "I was hoping it would not have to come to this, particularly as five generations of Darcy men have attended this school, but your son has delivered the last straw and the camel's back is irreparably broken."

It did not immediately occur to Mark what the man meant, but in an instant the enormity of what he was saying, what it must have meant, struck him. Aidan and Eton.

Before Mark could consider it further, Johnson went on.

"I especially cannot turn my back on physical violence, particularly when he knew the consequences."

Mark spoke at last, spurred by the surprising mention of— "_Physical_ violence?"

"Yes. An escalation of tensions between your son and Ethan Hawthorne." The headmaster sighed, then said with a sort of fraternal confidence, "Mind you, I am personally very fond of your son, but repeated and blatant disregard of the rules cannot be tolerated."

Mark ran his hand back through his hair as the awful truth sank in: Aidan was officially expelled from Eton, and that was the end of it, the end of a long tradition in his family. To say he was disappointed was an understatement, not only in Aidan, but in himself as a father; obviously he had failed at his duty. The thought of his son not attending Eton had sent him into a sort of hazy fugue until he realised the headmaster was speaking once more.

"…so I trust he will not have any trouble transitioning to another school. His grades speak for themselves."

"Yes, sir. I'm sure you're right," said Mark, pacing back towards the telephone's base.

"We'll expect you to come pick him and his possessions up as soon as possible."

"Yes," Mark said. "Thank you for calling."

"You're welcome," he said. "I only wish it had been under happier circumstances."

"Agreed, sir," Mark said again. "Good night."

"To you and Mrs Darcy as well."

Mark placed the receiver down to disconnect the call and only then did he let out a slow, steady breath.

"Mark? Who was that? I heard you on the phone—"

He turned at the sound of his wife's voice; she stopped speaking immediately, probably due to the doleful expression on his face.

"What is it?" she asked, looking suddenly stricken, probably as stricken as he did.

"Where's my mother? Lizzie?"

"Lizzie stayed late for debate club. And your mother left you a message—didn't you get it?" He looked at his mobile on the table, saw the blinking light indicating a message; delayed delivery, most likely. "She took the train back—if I hadn't needed to work I would have just driven her back."

"What about the test results?"

"They called this morning. Tests came back fine—she just needs more exercise." Bridget came close enough to him to touch his arm. "What's wrong? Who was that?"

"That was the call I've been fearing."

"Fearing? What? Whatever are you talking about?"

"Aidan's been kicked out of Eton."

She blinked rapidly. "Oh," she said. "Jesus, I thought it was…" She drifted off. "I don't know. Something really serious."

"This _is_ serious, Bridget," he said sharply. "You must see that."

"Mark," she said, the tone of her voice very gentle. "I mean only that it's not like this is out of the blue. You know he and Eton have not been a good match. This seemed inevitable."

"Where else is he going to go?"

"I'm sure there are plenty of other schools that are _not_ Eton and in which he'll flourish," she said gently.

As much as her reaction exasperated him, it did not surprise him. She was as headstrong as she'd ever been regarding her liberal opinions on parenting. "You don't understand," he said, "and there's nothing I can say that will ever make you."

There was a flash of a moment during which she looked hurt, but it was gone so quickly he figured he must have imagined it. "Well, on that I'll agree," she said, smiling tenderly. "Really. It isn't the end of the world. Aidan's not happy there. He can get just as good an education somewhere else, and be a lot happier. It's what he's wanted anyway."

The statement hit him like a second punch to the stomach. To learn that Aidan had expressed his unhappiness, his desire to be away from Eton, with his mother sparked a sense of betrayal through him that he had not felt in years: his son did not wish to follow in his footsteps. What if he'd done this act of violence intentionally? He exhaled sharply, pinching the corners of his eyes with his fingers.

"Mark."

He looked at her. She was gazing affectionately back up at him, and she held her arms open in an offer to wrap them around him. He had never doubted her love for him, regardless of their diverging opinions, and this was no exception; she got up onto her toes as she had hundreds of times before, and kissed him before holding him close in her embrace. In turn he enfolded her with his own arms and held her to him.

"It'll be all right," she murmured. "So what did he do this time?"

"A fight with Ethan Hawthorne," Mark said. "Physical."

"Why? Is Aidan all right?"

"Headmaster did not mention," he said, not adding he had been too shocked to ask on either count.

"Hmm," she said. "Well, I suppose if he were hurt he would have said…."

"He had to know it'd get him kicked out."

She was quiet. "Maybe it's a chance he was willing to take."

He said nothing, which undoubtedly told her of his previous thoughts.

"Mum? Dad? Everything okay? Is it Gran?"

He broke from Bridget's embrace to turn his gaze to his daughter. She looked ashen.

"It's not Gran, Lizzie. Come here," said Bridget, holding an arm out for her, slipping it around the girl's shoulders. "Everything's okay."

Everything was _not_ okay; Mark had to make her understand. "Your brother's gotten himself kicked out of Eton."

"Oh no! Did he fail classes?" she asked.

"No," said Mark.

"What'd he do?"

"We're not sure," said Bridget. "Something about a fight."

"He punched somebody, didn't he?" asked Lizzie.

"We don't know details," reiterated Bridget.

"He'll be home tomorrow," said Mark, his anger building slow and white-hot deep inside; he had every intention of finding out the details. "He broke the rules and now he has to pay the price." He shot Bridget a look; he wouldn't have her contradict him.

"We don't yet know what happened." Bridget met his gaze almost defiantly. "But it was wrong of him to resort to violence."

"Yes," Mark agreed, enfolding his daughter and his wife in another hug before releasing them.

Lizzie said, "Well, whatever the case, I'll be glad to have Aidan at home. Don't tell him, but I like it best when he's here."

"My lips are sealed," said Bridget, then added with an air of confidentiality, "but I'll be glad too."

He felt ever more the villain, made to feel as if he did not, somehow, miss his own son in what he felt was a necessary absence. Thinking about the next day, about his son being schooled anywhere but Eton, angered and troubled him greatly.

The inevitable had to be done, however. He picked up the phone once more, dialling Aidan's mobile number. It rang several times before going to voice mail; the thought of Aidan avoiding his father's call further infuriated Mark. He managed to leave a relatively calm message for his son, a quietly building thunderstorm not yet breaking, commanding Aidan to be prepared for pick up at precisely two in the afternoon. The only obvious sign of his intemperance was the force with which he then hung up the phone.

…

At bedtime, after his temper had somewhat calmed, Bridget was sensitive enough to bring up a mug of Horlicks for each of them, some Jammy Dodgers and Custard Creams, and a smile. "Thought you might like an extra dose of TLC," she said with warm concern, sitting beside where he was reclined in bed and reading a little something to help get his mind off of the evening. He set the book aside, then reached to give her a hug.

"Horlicks and biscuits?" he asked.

"Oh, heavens no," she said, and as he brought the mug up for a closer look, he realised there was a distinctly alcoholic scent coming up from it. He chuckled. She had put Bailey's into his Horlicks. He smiled and brought his hand up to cradle her cheek.

"I love you," he said.

She leaned forward and kissed him, once, twice, then a third time a little more lingeringly. "Let's have a little bedtime snack," she said.

The doctored Horlicks helped him to relax then fall to sleep, but not nearly as much as curling into her comforting embrace after she switched off the lamp.

…

Mark dreaded getting out of bed the next morning. It was bad enough that he'd had to try to reach his assistant to cancel his appointments and otherwise work with his partners in chambers to take over his work for the afternoon (instead reaching a new colleague who was all too happy to do what she could), but now had the daunting task of picking up his son from a school from which he had been expelled in disgrace, sit through an exit interview feeling like he was himself being punished, then drive back to their home in London without unleashing the full force of his anger upon his son in transit. He wondered if Aidan felt disgraced at all. Mark could not get it out of his head that Aidan was a Darcy and had been expected to use Eton as a launching point for a stellar educational career. That was now not to be. Everything was uncertain, and he hated uncertainty.

Finding a school for the boy to attend, one with acceptably stellar academic standards that might be willing to overlook the behavioural black marks in favour of his exceptional grades, was a task Mark did not relish at all. He wished he felt half the confidence Bridget had expressed, not that he doubted his son's abilities but rather the schools from which to choose that might be likely to accept him.

The drive to Eton seemed twice as long as usual, probably because it was likely the last such drive he would make. Mark had every intention of presenting himself at Aidan's door with a crisp knock at precisely two in the afternoon. As he drew his car close to the usual area in which he liked to park, he was stunned to find that Aidan was already there to meet him… with the entirety of his belongings. Knapsack, suitcase, trunk. Everything. Not only had his son been ejected from Eton, but his son felt it necessary to broadcast it to his classmates, to embarrass himself and his father by hauling his things down to the kerb like a common tramp.

Mark did not remember actually parking the car along the kerb, did not remember getting out of the car, did not become aware of his surroundings again until Aidan looked up from his notebook computer and caught his father's gaze.

"What is the meaning of this?" Mark asked with cool fury.

"What?"

"Having all of your things out here," Mark said. "Couldn't wait to be rid of this place, could you?"

Aidan furrowed his brow. "I just thought it'd be faster than—"

"Just put the trunk in the boot, the rest in the back seat," barked Mark, pressing a button on his key fob, unlocking the doors, then popped open the back. Aidan went quietly to the trunk; he couldn't lift it on his own, so Mark took up the other side and together they slipped it into the boot.

"We have to see Headmaster Johnson before we leave," Aidan said quietly. "Some kind of… exit interview."

"I know," said Mark in irritation, casting his gaze upon his son again. "Tell me one thing, Aidan Mark Darcy. Did you do this on purpose just to get out of here?"

"What? No!" Aidan exclaimed in such a shocked manner that Mark could only think that he hadn't given any forethought to the repercussions at all; it was yet another way in which he was like his mother. "If you had seen what that jerk had done to that defenceless kid, you would have popped him in the face, too, and besides—"

"Get in the car," Mark commanded. "We'll go suffer one final indignity with the headmaster, then get out of here. And then we'll discuss this at home."

In silence they drove to the other side of the campus. The meeting went about as he expected it would; every word that came from the headmaster's mouth sounded kind, but Mark heard nothing but pity, as if to say _You've failed us all, Mark; there'll be no Darcy welcome to Eton again._

The journey home took all of Mark's focus and attention, his fury simmering just below the surface. Aidan tried once to say something, getting as far as "Dad, I—"

"Not now," he barked. For their own safety Mark did not want to lose his temper further while driving. Aidan said nothing more.

Upon arriving to their Holland Park home, Mark saw that neither Bridget nor Lizzie were yet there. He and Aidan took care of bringing in Aidan's things before Mark said to his son, who was still avoiding his gaze, "Go to your room. We will talk when I am feeling calmer."

"Yes, Father," he said, then with a single upward glance to meet his eyes, Aidan turned and went up the stairs.

"No email, no internet," he called after him, belatedly adding, "no telephone."

Aidan did not respond, but Mark knew he'd heard.

With that Mark let out a breath he hardly realised he'd been holding in, running his hand over his face. He looked to his watch, saw it was barely half past four. He expected Lizzie and Bridget would be home soon. He turned for the drawing room, went to the locked cabinet for his Oban, pouring just enough to steady his nerves.

He was lifting the tumbler to his lips when he heard a key in the front door. Quickly he knocked the amber liquid back, burning a trail down his throat and into the centre of his chest. He cleared his throat then set the tumbler down, turning to look at the door just as Bridget came into view.

"Where's Lizzie?" he asked.

"I've sent her downstairs with the carrier bag." She regarded him thoughtfully. "Where's Aidan?"

"In his room."

She nodded, looking down then to him again. "So what happened? I mean, to get him expelled."

"I don't have the full story," said Mark as she came nearer. "I didn't trust myself not to shout."

"Have you been drinking?" she asked, glancing to the tumbler then to him.

"Just the one to calm myself, don't worry."

"What story _do_ you have?" she asked.

"Punched out Ethan Hawthorne," Mark said. "In defence of a younger boy again."

"Same one?"

"Does it matter?"

"I suppose not." She touched his upper arm.

"He had to know it'd get him kicked out," he said again.

"Maybe he wasn't thinking of that, at least not in the moment," she said. "I've known otherwise perfectly rational people to react similarly." He knew she was referring to his own actions regarding Daniel Cleaver, so many years ago.

"I had nothing so important as my future at stake," he said.

Bridget's mouth hardened. "You had _me_ at stake, whether you realised it or not," she said.

He sighed. "Sorry, I didn't mean it that way." He reached out a hand to take hers, then pulled her into an embrace, kissing her cheek. "Sorry."

She slipped her arm around his waist, fully accepting the hug. "You're forgiven," she said quietly, "because I love you so much." She looked up to him with wide blue eyes. "I hope you can do the same for your son."

He closed his eyes, then pressed a lingering kiss into her hair. He didn't say so aloud, but he hoped he could too.

"Lizzie is going to do her so-called famous pasta," said Bridget quietly after a few minutes. "Perhaps we should get talking to Aidan out of the way."

He knew her presence was for the best, knew that Aidan would not be so close-lipped or defensive with her, but a small part of him wished he could talk with his son, man to man. "You're right," he said. "I am feeling a bit calmer now."

She drew away, then took his hand in hers. "Come on."

"Bridget," he said, squeezing her hand. "I don't want you coddling him. We must present a united front on this."

"What is our front, Mark?" she said. "I'm not going to treat him like a failure and a disappointment."

"I don't want—" he began. "I want him to understand that yes, we still love him, but rules exist for a reason."

"I still want to hear his side of the story," she said. "No matter what he does, he is still our boy."

Together they scaled the stairs and approached his room. Mark knocked three times firmly. "Aidan."

"Come in."

Aidan was on his bed reading a book when they entered, and when he saw the both of them his expression changed indefinably. "Mum," he said; clearly he hadn't expected her presence. "Dad."

"Aidan," he said. "Tell us what happened."

He closed the book, set it aside, then sat upright. "You already know I punched out Ethan Hawthorne."

"But why?" asked Bridget. "What happened?"

"It was over Arthur Remington," he said. "He's a younger boy, just started this term. Hawthorne hasn't left him alone since—no idea what he's got against him." He looked meaningfully between his parents. "You know, it's the same boy I've been defending all term."

Mark closed his eyes for a moment, thinking the boy Aidan had defended was probably not much older than his baby sister. He also recollected how protective Aidan used to be of her when they would go and play in the park with other children, how he would argue with and even push down anyone who tried to do anything that he considered to be bothering her. At the time Mark had thought it a bit overzealous. Perhaps this was just an extension of that.

"Yes, Aidan."

"So how did it come to blows?" Mark asked coolly.

Aidan shrugged a little. "He crossed the line. My temper got the better of me. I don't deny I punched first." He held up his hand, showed that his knuckles were raw and abraded.

"Aidan," Bridget said gently. "What did he say, exactly?"

Aidan looked not to her, but to Mark. Mark nodded. He too was interested in hearing.

"He—well, Arthur is a really nice kid, kind of quiet, but not what you would call a masculine boy," said Aidan. "He gets a fair share of teasing, but especially from Ethan. From day one that prat has hurled every nasty slur he could think of at Arthur." Aidan's cheeks flushed with anger just talking about it. "I couldn't sit back and listen to it, not when—well, you know."

They did know. Bridget's long-time friend Tom, a gay man, had remained a part of their extended 'urban family'; Aidan and Lizzie loved and respected him as if he were their actual uncle. Bridget reached out a hand to him and took his, squeezing it.

"Ow," said Aidan.

Too late she realised it was the one with which he had thrown the punch. "Sorry, darling," she said, picking up and brushing a light kiss on the knuckles.

"I don't disagree with standing up to bullying, Aidan," he said quickly. "It's the manner in which you did it. You need to think before you speak… and act."

Aidan's expression at this seemed almost perplexed. "But I only—"

"I don't want to hear excuses," Mark interrupted. "I want assurances this will not happen again."

Aidan looked frustrated, even a little angry. "You're not letting me tell you my side of things."

"That's why we're here," said Bridget. "I thought you were telling your side."

"No, you heard what happened. Not why."

"You just said why. It was because Ethan was hurling slurs at Arthur."

"That's not what caused the fight. I mean, it was, but—"

"I said I don't want excuses," Mark said firmly. With finality.

Aidan cast his gaze down. "Yes, sir," he said in a slightly sarcastic tone, surprising Mark. He then met Mark's gaze, firm and unflinching, again surprising Mark. "I'm sorry to be such a bloody disappointment to the Darcy name."

"Aidan," she said crisply.

He then turned to Bridget. "Sorry, Mum."

"You are not a disappointment," she declared. Suddenly Bridget stood, went to sit on Aidan's other side, and pulled him (after a little resistance) into her arms. "You are also never too old for a hug from your mum," she said, glancing disapprovingly at Mark as she ran her fingers over Aidan's hair, smoothing it down. Infuriated, Mark rose and stalked from the room; he resisted the urge to go for another scotch and instead went into his home office, the one place he could count on for complete privacy. He just wanted a little time to clear his head before talking to Bridget or to Aidan again.

Within a few minutes Mark heard a rapping at his own door. "Mark. I know you're in there." It was Bridget's voice. "I'm coming in."

"Not a very good time."

The door swung open. She looked as upset as he had ever seen her. "I know this is hard for you," she said sympathetically. "You must know it's hard for him, too."

"I told you I wanted to present a united front."

"Please don't be angry at me for wanting to console a son in need," she said. "I couldn't bear to see him thinking he's a disappointment, just as I can't bear to see you feel you've failed somehow." She held out her arms and approached him, enfolding him in her embrace. "You know I'm here for you, too."

"Of course I do," he said softly.

Neither said anything for many moments, and when the silence was broken, Bridget was the one to do it. "You know, I think your father would understand."

Mark held her more tightly to him. Her words were surprisingly reassuring to him; after all, she'd known his father better than just about anyone else not blood-related to him, and his father had been terribly fond of her. Most of all, he loved that she knew him so well, seemingly knowing just what to say to make him feel better without his having to say anything at all, or without his even knowing precisely what was bothering him in the first place. "I'd hate to think of him disappointed," he confessed.

"I don't think Aidan could ever have disappointed your father. He loved Aidan so much I swear he thought that boy could do no wrong… just as Aidan loved him." Bridget laughed softly. "Even if grandfathers usually think their grandsons can do no wrong."

Mark chuckled softly at this, then turned his head to kiss her properly on the lips.

She caught his gaze and looked at him intently. "Don't think that Aidan isn't upset at the thought of disappointing you… and Malcolm's memory."

Mark sighed, reaching up to take her face in his hand. "I know."

She looked up at him expectantly, stepping back after a few silent moments. "I think you should go upstairs," she said. "For your son. I'll see how Lizzie is doing."

It wasn't until after she got to the door that he realised she'd been waiting for him to say something more, something on which he'd failed to deliver. He nodded, offering a little half smile, which softened her expression as she retreated.

Mark too left the office then went up the stairs, knocking once more on Aidan's door.

"Yeah," came the flat voice.

Mark pushed the door open. Aidan glanced up again, this time from where he had been looking out the window and to the darkened sky. For a moment Mark felt he'd gone back in time; in that moment Aidan looked like a younger, more vulnerable version of himself, the version apprehensive about going away from home to Eton in the first place. Just as quickly the illusion disappeared, and Aidan was again his current, teenaged son. "Aidan," Mark said gently, then cleared his throat. "I… I thought I would come up. To get you for supper." He stopped short; why did he find it so hard to apologise for storming out earlier?

Aidan blinked rapidly, then to Mark's disbelief, smiled a little then nodded. "Okay, Dad." He rose to his full height; any more growth spurts and he'd be towering over his own father.

In lieu of any other words—not that he would have known exactly what to say, anyway—Mark brought his hand up and patted Aidan's shoulder reassuringly. "Okay, son," he said. As he did, he remembered the occasional similar gesture from his own father, usually so guarded when it came physical displays; in particular Mark recalled the time when he'd been fourteen and had been so fretful over a research paper that he'd mistakenly jotted it down as being due after the long break rather than before; Mark had been inconsolable, afraid of failing grades, and his father had done the best he could to reassure him that all would be well. Of course all had been well; no failure had occurred, nothing worse than a stern word from the professor. Certainly no expulsion.

Mark squeezed his son's shoulder before releasing it, and as he did he felt the tension dissipate. Aidan, it seemed, understood how his father felt without having said a thing, and in Mark's relief, he chuckled almost nervously. "Hope you're hungry for your sister's pasta specialty," he said, tentatively stepping out onto more ordinary ground.

"Right now," said Aidan, "I think I'd eat my old leather shoe with mustard."

They walked down to the kitchen, neither of them speaking again, but it was not uncomfortable. When he arrived into the kitchen he saw that Bridget was turned away, straining the pasta as Lizzie stirred the sauce. He saw them practically every day, but just then he noticed how very close in height the two had become.

Without being asked Aidan went directly to where the plates were stored, grabbed a stack of four, then brought it to the table. Bridget looked to him then to Mark with drawn brows that asked without words how everything had gone; equally wordlessly Mark nodded that everything appeared all right. It seemed Bridget might ask more before Lizzie had a question pertinent to dinner: whether it would be best to bring the pasta and the sauce to the table, or the plates to the hob for distribution.

Bridget turned to her. "Bring them to the table. I'll get serving utensils."

With that she turned for those items, and as she came to the table, Lizzie was bringing the bowl of steaming sauce, then returning with the strained pasta.

At that moment it seemed Bridget too noticed her daughter's height and smiled, then laughed. "Pretty soon I'll be the shortest of the lot of us," she said as she began doling out the pasta. "A Lilliputian amidst a family of giants."

At this Mark chuckled aloud, which made Lizzie burst out in a laugh. He glanced to Aidan with a smile, and saw him fighting one of his own.

"As personality goes," Mark said, "you'll always be the biggest of us, darling."

Their dinner together was as good as any they'd ever had, but as Mark readied for bed he felt some of his apprehension return. His son was out of Eton, without a school, his whole future up in the air. Bridget seemed to sense his uneasiness, and from behind she put her arms around him as he stood at the bathroom sink. "No matter what happens," she said, "we have each other."

He sighed, turning and snaking his arms around her, feeling completely reassured by her consolation. "I know, darling," he said. "I love you."

"I love you too; you know that," she said quietly.


	4. Chapter 4: Lapse in Judgment

**Change of Heart**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 6,282 (this chapter)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4: Lapse in Judgment<strong>

The headmaster was not wrong regarding Aidan's ability to get into another school; this happened frightfully fast. As the days went by, Aidan, at home now for his studies, was clearly flourishing in his new educational environment. He had never been a poor student, but Mark had never seen (or in the case of Eton, heard about) such enthusiasm from Aidan for the academic challenges presented to him. His son especially seemed to enjoy the computer programming class he'd taken with far more interest than he'd ever had in the law, the field Mark had hoped he'd pursue.

It was difficult for Mark to let go of the bitterness. All of this had happened because Aidan had acted without thinking, without consulting with his father first. Mark still felt angry, disappointed and a little wounded that things had gone the way they had. Aidan would be the first Darcy in generations not to graduate from the esteemed Eton College at the top of the class. He knew that his son was more than capable and felt churlishly resentful that Aidan would never get a chance to prove himself or join the ranks of his ancestors. Aidan would not be following the track Mark had laid down for him, not following the rules Mark had followed; Aidan did not even seem to want to follow them.

However, Mark could not escape the fact that he rather enjoyed that his son was living at home; he liked when they had all breakfast together, liked hearing Aidan's day-to-day progress in classes, liked when Aidan offered (and correctly so) troubleshooting advice when Mark's laptop was acting up and unable to print. He especially liked seeing Bridget so happy. All of this family bonding obviously warred with his overriding desires for Aidan's schooling. Mark continued to work late in his office outside of the house, something he needed to do as the case required he work closely with his partners in chambers, but he also knew it helped him to avoid the conflict within himself.

His absences did not go unnoticed. About a month after the expulsion, with work to finish, Mark arrived home as late as had become his recent custom to find his wife waiting for him in the foyer, concern washed over her face.

"Mark," she said. "We need to talk and you haven't been around."

He became equally concerned. "Of course," he said. "What's the matter?"

"Not here," she said.

At this need for privacy—he presumed she did not want the children to hear—he became more worried still. "Well, I need to put this in my office," he said, indicating his attaché case. "Let's go in there."

She nodded.

Together they walked to Mark's home office; he went directly to his desk, set the attaché down, turned and immediately took Bridget into his arms. "What's this?"

"You look upset, is all," he said. "Figure I can't go wrong with a hug straightaway, especially if you're upset with me."

She chuckled a bit and returned the hug. "Mark, it's not you," she said. "It's Arthur."

He pulled back, confused. "Who's Arthur?"

"Arthur… he's Aidan's friend from Eton. I've gotten more out of Aidan, and I'm really worried for the boy."

As she spoke, he remembered that Arthur was the boy Aidan had defended against Ethan Hawthorne. Mark drew his brows together.

"I wonder, Mark, if we shouldn't have intervened, if we shouldn't still intervene," she went on. "Talk with the headmaster, Arthur's parents…" She trailed off a little. "What do you think?"

"I think we should stay out of it."

Her surprise was obvious. "What?"

"Frankly, I think Aidan exaggerated circumstances to minimise his own culpability," he said, surprising himself a little with his own candour. "He's gotten his way, and maybe now feels a little remorse for using such a thin pretext to get himself kicked out of Eton. I think we've been 'involved' enough."

Bridget sat for a full half minute with her mouth hanging slightly open. "You're still hanging on to the notion he somehow engineered this on purpose in order to simply get out of Eton? _I_ think he's telling the truth, Mark," she said. "He's given specific instances, specific _slurs_, and fully admitted to throwing the first punch! He's distraught. How can you think he's lying?"

"I didn't say he was lying."

"You might as well have done," she said testily. "'Exaggerated circumstances to minimise—'"

At this Mark reached a boiling point he didn't even know he had, and exploded with, "You _never_ think he's lying, Bridget! You are more willing to listen to _him_ than to me, more willing to be on _their_ side and not mine, like you'd rather be one of _them_ than be a responsible parent with me."

Even as he said it, even he felt a sense of relief at airing his feelings, he felt guilty for lashing out. He could tell that it had hurt her, and she did not remain silent for long.

"So that's it, is it?" she shouted back. "Your true feelings at last, Mark? Your sub-standard wife is a terrible, irresponsible mother who's blind to their needs. Is that it?"

"Yes, Bridget," he said hotly. "Sometimes I think you _are_ blind to what they need and give them what they _want_, instead. I feel at times I need to make up for lost ground and be as strict as they need a parent to be."

She had tears in her eyes; he had wounded her deeply.

"It doesn't prepare them for life, Bridget," he went on. "They need rules, they need a parent to prepare them for independence. Aidan isn't going to have someone to watch over him all of his life."

She stared at him, evidently speechless. "Oh, like you watch over me, you mean?"

All of the times he had rescued her from misunderstandings and from actual peril—"Yes, I suppose I do."

"Oh!" she said. She nodded slowly, looking away. "Now I see how it is."

This had all devolved into something it never should have. Something terrible. "Bridget," he said in a gentler tone, stepping forward. He reached for her, but she recoiled from his grasp.

"Don't touch me, Mark," she said. When he tried again, she slapped his hand away so hard it stung. "I said don't fucking touch me."

He stood upright, wounded by her harsh words. He reached out again, but this time it was to grab his attaché. "I have more work to do," he said with a simmering fury.

Before he knew it he was outside, sitting in his car and turning the key in the ignition, breathing heavily. Everything had gone so horribly wrong; he certainly did not mean to suggest he thought she was a terrible mother, but there certainly were times when he felt like he had to put his foot down and be the adult. He needed to get away, give her time to think, give himself time to think too. With nowhere else to go, he decided to return to the office.

He did not care to drive when he was angry, so he forced himself into a calmer state as he directed his vehicle. As his anger receded he felt even more remorseful, and as he went into his office, he debated calling home to offer apologies. Instead he glanced over to the minibar in his office, a holdover from past days where it was expected that a drink be offered at meetings, and often he still did, which was always very well received. The brand new bottle of scotch seemed all too appealing, and he rose to open it, splashing more than his customary two-fingers-high into a tumbler and tossing it all back. It burned a trail down his throat. He felt the tendrils of intoxication wend their way through his system as he poured and drank once more.

"Oh, you've come back."

He glanced up from the now-half-empty bottle, his vision a bit blurry. It was Portia; although close in age to Mark, she was relatively new to chambers and eager to make a good impression, evidenced by the long hours she had spent on their joint project. "Yes," he said, pouring more scotch, the stream unsteady.

"What's wrong?"

He snorted. "What isn't wrong?" he asked, looking into the glass, swirling it around before taking another drink. He poured a second tumbler. "Have some."

"Thank you, no," she said. He looked up to her, then took the second glass and drained it.

He sensed she was watching him with scrutiny. "Care to talk about it?" she asked, sitting on the leather sofa.

He looked at her, weaving a bit in his seat. Undoubtedly the scotch was affecting him, but he thought perhaps he did want to talk about it, perhaps a third party opinion of his actions was warranted. Although it felt harsh, perhaps he had been justified in saying what he need to say. He rose to his full height after a few false starts, taking the bottle with him—he thought, _Why bother with a glass anymore?_—and took a seat beside her.

As he let the whole story out, words fumbling on his uncooperative tongue, she claimed his free hand in hers and began to pat it reassuringly. "Of course you're right," she said cooingly, her words flitting in and out of his consciousness. He had no concept of the passage of time; what might have been seconds or minutes later, she reached around his shoulders. "You have to take a stand for what you believe in." She loosened his tie. "Can't have children be best pals with their parents." She pulled his head down to her shoulder, combing through his hair with her perfectly manicured nails. "They need structure and guidance."

Oddly, his words did not help, only made him feel more morose. He tilted his head back to drink from the bottle, felt her fingers lightly upon his neck. "Take it easy, Mark," she whispered close to his ear.

"I'll drink the whole damned bottle if I like," he grumbled.

He felt her loosening the top button on his shirt, pulling the halves of his collar apart. "You really don't want to overdo it."

"Maybe I do," he said, his head lolling back on the sofa, his eyes closing. He felt her take the bottle from his hand.

"Poor Mark," she said. He felt a loosening at his waist as well, which felt pretty good, as he was feeling warm, unsettled and dizzy.

"Mmm," he said.

"Better?" she said softly. Before he had a chance to answer he felt what seemed to be her lips on his cheek, her hand on his shoulder. He heard her speaking soothing words to him, felt her caressing the skin of his face, throat, collarbones… and after the events of the evening it felt good to have a measure of consolation. In the midst of this haze, he also heard what sounded very much like his son's voice shouting, but since she did not move, since she did not shout back, he could only assume that he was imagining it in his drunken state.

Then the blackness came and he remembered no more, not until the sun pounded on his eyelids and the reality of what had occurred the night before sent him to sitting bolt upright, opening his eyes to the brightness around him and fighting the thrumming in his temples.

He was alone. Relief washed over him; relief over what he was not sure. He ran his hand over his face, sitting up straight, which caused his head to throb even harder. He groaned. Bridget was going to be furious that he'd been out all night, and he was going to deserve it—

"Morning."

He turned to see Portia standing there, the same clothes he remembered seeing the night before draping from her skinny form, her dark hair unpinned and loose for the first time in his recollection, sweeping along her shoulders. She bore two cups of coffee from the shop around the corner, and she was smiling, something else he had never seen. This scene caused a dark foreboding to well deep in the pit of his stomach.

"Black as you like," she said, sitting beside him.

"Thank you," he said tentatively, sipping from the cup. He glanced up at her to find she was looking at him with intense regard.

"Sorry about what happened," she said; he was about to ask precisely what had happened exactly, but she continued. "With your son, I mean." A slow, sly smile spread across her face. "I am _not_ sorry about anything else last night."

Mark felt all colour drain from his skin. He had not, in fact, imagined his son's appearance in the office last night. Mark did not know what Aidan could have seen, as Mark had not been in possession of his faculties and had no earthly idea what had actually occurred. From the way his clothes were in disarray—_Oh God_, he thought, really looking down at himself for the first time, _my trousers are open_—he could only assume the worst. "What happened?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Nothing you objected to," she said, sipping from her own cup.

He ran his hand over his face, through his hair. She reached to touch his knee, but he brushed her away. "Please," he said. "I've made a big enough mess of things."

She furrowed her brow. "I thought… well, it seemed pretty clear to me you had walked out on your wife."

"Not forever." He set the coffee down and stood, tucking his shirt into his trousers, all the while his head swirling. He had to get home.

"I don't think you're fit to drive just yet."

"I'm fine." Aside from the pain, he was thinking perfectly rationally and clearly. "I'm sorry. I feel terrible for taking advantage of your kindness and care last night. For giving you the wrong impression."

She blinked then smiled softly. "It's… fine. Really."

He buttoned his suit jacket, which was crumpled, and removed his loose tie. "I really do have to go."

"Don't forget your coffee." She held it up for him. He was, in his way, grateful for it, as it did help soothe his head, so he took it and drank from it again. "If you need anything more," she said, "don't hesitate to let me know."

He muttered a quiet thank you, then left the office.

Every mile closer to his home sent his apprehension levels even higher. Moreover, he was distraught to have done something so awful, so stupid, something for which he might never be forgiven. As he stepped into the foyer, he expected to hear or see Bridget standing and waiting for his return, but she was not there. He went to his office to return his attaché to the desk and only then did he sense someone's presence behind him.

He turned to find his son standing at the door. Aidan looked as angry as he had ever seen him.

"Aidan, I need to see your mother," he said. "Is she here?"

"I could punch you out right now," said Aidan between gritted teeth, obviously furious. "I can't believe you would do that to us."

"Aidan," Mark said again. "Your mother."

"She's here, but you have—"

"Aidan." A softer, female voice from behind Aidan spoke. Bridget. "It's all right. I can fight my own battles." As her gaze met his, his heart broke; she had clearly been crying for a good portion of the night.

"Bridget."

"Aidan, please leave us alone," she said quietly. Without another word, Aidan left, closing the door behind them. Only then did she draw in a great breath and let it out. "So, let's have it."

"What?" he asked, bewildered.

"Whatever it is you've got to say about last night," she said, her voice quavering. "Was it convenient for us to have the fight? Or would you have run off to her anyway?"

"Bridget," he said again, he did not know what else to say because he couldn't quite comprehend what she was asking. "It meant nothing."

She laughed an odd, hysterical laugh. "Nothing," she repeated. "Just like your opinion of my parenting skills, your opinion about our marriage."

"I said a lot of things last night that I didn't mean—"

"Don't lie to me, Mark," she said, her anger surfacing at last. "You don't say things you don't mean." Tears were flowing down her cheeks. "Do you know how much it killed Aidan to see you in your office with that… _woman_, her hand in your trousers? Do you have any idea how humiliating that is, Mark, to hear something like this from a son that loves and respects you, looks up to you?"

He looked down. "I can't express how sorry I am, Bridget," he said quietly. "I had more to drink than I should have. I—"

"I don't want to hear excuses," Bridget said curtly, interrupting him with the very words he'd said to Aidan; he was sure this was intentional. "I don't suppose it's something you normally need to think about, closing the door so your son doesn't see. You're used to privacy in there, aren't you?"

With a dawning horror he realised she thought this was something that was a habit for him, that this was something he did all the time. "Bridget," he said once more, then stopped. Once again he did not know what to say. Protestations died on his tongue, feeling like little more than excuses.

She sniffed, then wiped the tears from her face. "He came straight back, you know," she said, forcing brightness. "I could tell he was upset, but he wouldn't say why. And by the time I got it out of him, I…. Well. Couldn't very well leave them here alone in the middle of the night, especially with Aidan in that state, could I?"

When she stopped talking, the silence was resounding. Mark looked down. Obviously she needed time to think; she might then be more willing to hear what had really happened. He could tell she was angry and very hurt, and she honestly had every right in the world to be.

"Right," said Bridget; he could see out of the corner of his eye that she was pulling herself up to her full height, drying her cheeks again. When she spoke again, her voice was cool and business-like. "Give me a few days, Mark. I'll find a place for the kids and me."

At this he looked up, shocked.

"Then I'll consult with a divorce solicitor."

Leaving? Divorce? "Bridget, _no_."

"Yes, Mark. I don't know how you could possibly expect I'd stay, not after this." He saw her lower lip begin to tremble again, but she bit down on it to quell it.

"Bridget," he began again, starting to feel a bit angry. "How can you be so willing to throw this all away over one transgression?"

Her eyes lit with a new fire, yet her tone was icy when she retorted, "You apparently were, Mark."

He sighed, pressing his thumb and forefingers into the corners of his eyes. He did not want to think all hope was lost, had no intention of going down without a fight, but the least he could do right now was volunteer to be the one to leave. It had been his indiscretion, after all. "You stay. I'll go. It's all the children know—"

"No," she interrupted. "I think it's best that they have a familiar place to stay when they visit you."

He understood her reasoning: they should have some comfort in visiting the catalyst to the upheaval of their family life. "When you find something," he said quietly, "let me know the cost. I'll be happy to pay—"

"I don't need anyone to take care of me." It was undoubtedly a direct reference to the argument that had set this awful chain of events in motion, and he knew it. She took in a deep breath. "I would like to keep this as civilised as possible for the children's sake. Poor Lizzie doesn't understand what's going on or why. Aidan… I'm sure he didn't mean it when he said he didn't want to see you again. Whatever happens, he still needs his father." With that she sighed. "I'll talk to him, do what I can to get him to come around."

"Thank you," he said in a papery voice.

"And to Lizzie too, though, as I said—"

"She doesn't know what happened," he finished. "I appreciate your not telling her."

"Thank Aidan," she said. "He thought—I mean, we both did—that it was very important that she not know details."

He looked down again. "Yes, you're right."

She said nothing more for many moments. He was drawn to look up at her again. She looked so lost and forlorn; it broke his heart to gaze upon her, broke his heart even more that he could not take her into his arms, possibly wouldn't get the chance to do it again. "For what it's worth," he said quietly, "I really am sorry."

She bit down on her lip again, looked away. "I…" she began, then sniffed. "I should tend to the children." With that she turned around fully, opening the door and stepping through into the foyer, pulling the door mostly closed behind her. With that same forced brightness, he heard her call for Lizzie and Aidan for breakfast; her footsteps echoed on the parquet floor as she made her way to the staircase, silencing when she reached the stairs.

Despondent, Mark slumped into his seat, wishing fervently in that moment for the chance to turn the clock back twenty-four hours. Not that he wasn't reaping what he had himself sowed; he had no one to blame but himself, not for anything along the way leading to the fight and to this moment. He leaned forward, putting his head in his hands, taking in a deep breath, feeling tears building in his eyes though he refused to allow himself any further weakness.

"Dad?"

Mark's head snapped up at the sound of this tremulous voice, saw Lizzie standing there looking concerned and hesitant. "Hello, darling," he said quietly.

She didn't say anything more, just came near to him and gave him what he needed most in that moment: a heartfelt hug. "I know something bad happened," she said, "but I still love you."

He tightened his embrace on his little girl. It took all of his willpower not to break down further. "I love you, Lizzie," he said, closing his eyes. "No matter what happens, I always will; you must know that."

He heard a scoff at the door. He glanced in that direction and saw Aidan there, looking at him with unbridled disgust. "Haven't even changed or showered after… _that_," he said harshly, "and you're hugging your daughter. How vile." Changing to a kinder tone, he added, "Come on, Lizzie. Mum's got breakfast."

Lizzie drew away from her father, clearly torn between the two men closest to her, both of whom she loved dearly. At last she offered a small smile and kissed him on the head. "See you later, Dad."

He nodded, watched her leave, then stood from his desk. No time like the present to change, shower and shave.

…

As the days passed, Mark moved around the house like a ghost; he took up residence in one of the guest rooms to spare Bridget the awkwardness of having to share a bed with him, showering in the shared bath, passing in and out of rooms when he knew she wasn't there, lingering at framed photos to reflect upon happier days. Aidan left any room Mark entered, refusing to speak to him. As for Lizzie, Mark tried to be there for her, but she too seemed to sense that some great injustice had been done to her mother by him, and she grew cool and aloof towards him. Distant.

Perhaps it was that Lizzie had overheard the details he had been careful to keep from her. Perhaps it was that Aidan told her, after all, in broad terms enough to knock Mark crashing from his pedestal and into the realm of being only human.

Mark understood that Bridget was in no way venting her fury on the children. In fact, it was quite the opposite; he overheard her defending him, as their father, to Aidan and Lizzie. "What's happened between your father and I has nothing to do with you. He loves you and he's always been a good father to you."

Aidan made a dismissive sound. "Yes, Mum," he said sarcastically, "let's give him a Father of the Year medal—"

"Not a word, Aidan," she scolded, interrupting him. "I believe you know what it's like to make a mistake you regret more than anything in the world."

"Then why do you have to sleep apart?" asked Lizzie. "Everyone's so unhappy."

Bridget did not answer right away. Mark felt guilty for eavesdropping but was too curious to hear what she had to say. At last it came. "Sometimes the mistakes are like chasms, too great to fill," Bridget said sadly. "Things will never be the same." Bridget sniffed. "But that doesn't negate his love for you."

It didn't negate his love for her, either, but there was no point in speaking up, revealing his clandestine position. Instead, spirit-like, he moved out of earshot and into the office in which he had been spending an inordinate amount of time.

A quiet knock at the door brought him from his thoughts some time after this encounter, as he reviewed his papers for the next day. "Come in," he said.

When the door slid open, it surprised him that it was Bridget. "Can we talk?"

He set his papers down, his attention fully on her. He rose to his feet. "Yes, Bridget. Of course." His heart was pounding; could she possibly want to discuss reconciliation?

She closed the door and faced him again, moving closer, looking uncertain as she wrung her hands. "It's Lizzie," she said at last. "She keeps asking me what happened, and I don't know what to say to her."

Though the words were plain enough, he didn't quite comprehend what she was asking.

"She's at the age where she resents being treated as if she can't possibly understand what's going on," Bridget went on. "I know you and she have always had… a special bond, and I don't want that to change. But we can't keep avoiding her questions."

"_You_ can't keep avoiding them," he corrected. "She hasn't asked me."

At this she looked crestfallen, and she sighed. "I'd hoped we could at least still talk civilly about our children." She then turned away.

Within a beat he was at her side, placing a gentle hand on her arm. "Sorry," he said with equal gentleness. "Please don't leave."

She turned to face him, her tongue peeking out to wet her lips before looking up to meet his gaze. "Any suggestions are welcome."

He became suddenly conscious of the fact that his hand was still on her arm, and he drew it away. "I think it might be best if we speak to her together after dinner," he said at last. "I think it's important to demonstrate that no matter what happens between us, we will always be there for her."

For the first time since this had occurred, he saw the echo of a smile on her face. He was grateful to see it. "Yes, thank you."

"Obviously she doesn't need anything more than to know I… well, that sometimes good people, smart people, do foolish things."

Bridget nodded, her lower lip quivering again; after a moment of contemplation, to his surprise she launched forward and hugged him. He took solace in this consolation for the short time it lasted, hugged her tightly in return before she pushed him away, pulled the door open, and with tears in her eyes abruptly left the room.

Dinner was, as it had become in recent days, an uncomfortable, silent affair; no group effort at putting the meal together, no talking or laughing, no sense of teamwork. That particular evening no one said a thing until they were nearly finished, when Bridget cleared her throat gently and said, "Lizzie, your father and I would like to talk to you after dinner." She turned to Aidan. "If you would please clear the table I would really appreciate it."

Aidan, who seemed keen to let loose a verbal barb, held his tongue at his mother's request to clean up. "Yes, Mum."

Mark decided to allow Bridget to lead the way for their talk, and went to the sitting room rather than his office; it made sense to put Lizzie in a place of comfort, though it was not nearly as private as he would have liked. She indicated Lizzie should sit on the sofa, and asked Mark to have a seat beside her. She then pulled up a chair so that she was also next to her, but in front of her, so that she could see both of her parents at once.

"Lizzie," she said, reaching out her hand in an offer to take her daughter's. "I know the last few days have been very difficult, particularly for you since we haven't given you the information you've wanted, and for that we are sorry." She glanced to Mark, as if it were his cue to speak.

"Lizzie," he said, also reaching for her hand, though she was far more reluctant to accept it, and looked to their joined hands, not meeting his gaze. "I may be your father, but I am also just an ordinary man with faults like everyone else. I make mistakes just like everyone else. Though we all like our children to think their parents are infallible, I am not perfect. Do you understand what I mean?"

She nodded.

He continued. "Even if it comes to be that your mum and I… don't live together anymore—"

Lizzie looked up, interrupting with, "You mean divorce, don't you? I'm not a baby."

He closed his eyes briefly. "Of course you aren't, love. Whatever happens we will always be there for you and your brother. We will never love you less and will always work together for whatever is best for the both of you."

Lizzie began to tear up. "But what I want is for you and Mum to be happy again."

"Sometimes things change," said Bridget, sniffing, warding off tears of her own. "Things we may not wish for or like, but must accept. And if your dad is in love with another woman now, that has no bearing on how he feels about you or Aidan."

Mark heard the words but was too astonished to immediately respond to them. Did she truly believe this to be the case? He said nothing more, not when Bridget asked Lizzie not to avoid her father as he needed her love as much as he ever had, not when Lizzie rose to give him a hug (which he returned earnestly) and a kiss on the cheek.

As their daughter left, Mark looked to Bridget, who looked weary from holding herself together for that talk. "Bridget," he began, "I think there may be a—"

_Misunderstanding_, he was poised to say, except that Aidan came into the room suddenly, holding a red-splotched towel to his hand. "Cut myself," he said, his face ashen.

The two of them were at his side in an instant. "Let's see," said Mark, and for a moment it was like old times; Aidan complied without hesitation. He saw, they both did, that it was a only a shallow slice on his finger, but it was bleeding profusely as hand wounds always do. A trip to Accident and Emergency did not seem to be in their near future. Mark put the towel back into place and put pressure on the cut.

"You'll be fine," agreed Bridget. "Just keep your hand up."

"You're as much of a trouble magnet as your mum," Mark said in jest, for the moment lulled into feeling as things might be on the way to being all right again. Bridget actually chuckled, but when Aidan snatched his wounded hand back from Mark, gave him a fierce look, Mark realised he had made a misstep.

"You don't have to always be putting her down, you know," Aidan said.

"Aidan, he was teasing," said Bridget. "I was a trouble magnet. Well. In all honesty, I still am." She offered a little wink to Aidan to let him know she was not offended.

Since they were all together, Mark thought it was not a bad idea to try to have a talk with Aidan similar to the one they'd had with Lizzie. He began speaking those same words—that he wasn't perfect; that regrettably, he sometimes made mistakes—when Aidan made a scoffing sound.

"Spare me," said Aidan. "Your mistake was in not locking the door, right?" With that he directed his words to his mother. "Will you help me put a plaster on this?"

Bridget turned her eyes to Mark. "Um, yes, of course," she said, "but I do not appreciate the disrespect you're showing your dad. I think you owe him an apology."

Aidan did not apologise. He only met Mark's gaze for a moment more, then left for the bathroom.

With resignation in his voice, Mark said, "I thought you were going to try to talk to him."

"I have been," she said. "He's obviously been greatly affected. But I know deep down he still loves you, so I'm not going to stop trying." She offered a small smile, but he could tell her heart wasn't in it. Mark couldn't help thinking he loved her more than ever. "I'd better help with the plastering up."

Mark nodded, and with that she left to follow Aidan upstairs. He decided to occupy himself downstairs; if Aidan had cut himself he must have left behind a broken glass or plate.

By the sink he saw evidence of the accident; a plate had dropped and broken into long thin shards, and Aidan had obviously done his best to clean it up, nicking his finger in the process, blood smear on the edge of the sink a testament to that. However, the longer Mark looked at the remains of the plate—the way the shards were shaped, the distance over which they had travelled—the more it became obvious to Mark that the plate had not been casually dropped, but hurled down at high velocity. He pulled out a plastic sack, crouched down and gingerly began plucking the larger pieces up from the floor and putting them into the sack. He was just sweeping up the smaller pieces that remained when he heard footfalls on the stairs.

"I was just coming to clean that up." It was Bridget. "Thank you."

"The least I could do," he said, "all things considered."

"What do you mean?"

He paused to look at her. "I'm pretty sure Aidan threw this down on purpose in his frustration."

"Oh."

He set the broom aside; he'd get the bits into the dustpan in a moment. "Bridget," he asked quietly, "what makes you think I'm in love with Portia?"

"Is that her name?" Bridget asked, stiffening with defensiveness.

"Yes," he said. "My question."

He saw the line of her jaw go hard. "The great and noble Mark Darcy doesn't have meaningless drunken shags."

"There is no need for sarcasm," he said. "I have never lied to you, Bridget."

"How do I know that?" she retorted. "How can I be sure this hasn't been going on for some time? You have been spending a lot of time lately out of the house… at the office…. I can't trust anything I thought I knew about you anymore."

"If you can't trust anything you know about me," Mark returned, "how can you be so sure I'm not capable of making drunken mistakes?"

"Because if you were going to betray me," she said, her expression sad, "I'd prefer to think you did it for a better reason than a drunken mistake. I'd prefer the truth to your trying to be kind and spare my feelings—if it's the settlement you're worried about, I don't want anything from you. I can take care of myself and my children."

With that she walked away and up the stairs, leaving Mark feeling as if he had been slapped in the face; however, he knew it was pointless to pursue this conversation further. She was clearly in pain and would not hear anything beyond the framework of rationalisations she had constructed to protect herself from utter despair. It did trouble him, however, that she could think that the money, their possessions, was about all he was concerned; he would give it all to her if he could.

He thought about occupying his time with work, but even work—rather, being in the office—had been uncomfortable and awkward. He felt like a villain, leading Portia into a situation in which she had been drawn under false pretences. He did not know what to say to her when he saw her; he felt very guilty and very much unlike the gentleman he had always thought himself to be.

Mark could not remember the last time he had been so unhappy.


	5. Chapter 5: Disintegration

**Change of Heart**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 5,309 (this chapter)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.<span>: See Chapter 1.

Thanks to those of you who've left nice reviews/feedback, but particularly those to whom I can't reply directly. :)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5: Disintegration<strong>

"I refuse to believe this can be true."

To say Mark's mother Elaine was in shock to learn of the split was an understatement. The tone of her voice was one of hollowness, of disbelief, as she spoke these words to her son.

"If this is a joke," Elaine went on, "it's not a very funny one."

"I would never joke about something like this," said Mark. "It isn't something I'm proud of, a terrible mistake—"

"You're bloody well right it is," Elaine interrupted in the harshest tone he had heard her take in many years. "Mark, you're my son and I will always love you. But this… I cannot tell you how angry and disappointed I am in you."

To hear her speak this way only added to his misery, mostly because she had not spoken in such terms in longer than he could recall, but in part because he knew he deserved such scorn. He had hurt his wife in the worst possible way, and he knew this by having been hurt that way himself by a woman he did not love a quarter as much as he loved Bridget. With a sigh, he said, "It has not been an on-going affair." The words were cold comfort; he was still just as alone, and of his own doing.

"If you say so," she said; her doubtful tone spoke volumes more than her words did. If his own mother didn't believe him, he was sure no one else would. She exhaled sharply. "To have heard of this from Pam Jones and not you…"

He had resisted telling her of the split because he held out hope for them. Instead he only said, "I'm sorry."

When Bridget secured a house and moved herself and the children into it, there were no further expressions of disbelief, only confusion, sadness, and on the part of his mother, anger. He had admitted to his indiscretion, had owned it fully, and had expressed the greatest remorse possible, but also insisted that Bridget not be treated as if she were cruel and heartless for not accepting it.

Christmas morning had been difficult to face. It was the first he'd spent alone since the children had come along, the first time it felt to him like they were not really a family anymore. Bridget had brought them by for lunch and gift exchange. Aidan had been as cool towards him as he'd been during their regular visits, which was alienating enough. It had also been particularly difficult for him; it was no longer suitable to give Bridget the Christmas gift he'd picked out for her over the summer: a ring for their eighteenth wedding anniversary, which they would have been celebrating that twenty-sixth of December.

That anniversary day had been a very rough day, indeed. He had not gone out at all, had seen no one, had talked to no one, least of all his children. If Bridget was equally affected, he wanted them to be there for her. He indulged in a shot of scotch and looked through their wedding album, lingering on her bright smile, the portrait of their heartfelt kiss. It was a bit sentimental of him, but he figured he was allowed to be.

Equally difficult was seeing his son with a pretty young woman who was obviously his girlfriend; it had made him feel utterly disconnected from their lives. It was just before the new year that he'd seen them, having breakfast in a little café near Holland Park that they used to frequent as a family. Mark, feeling unexpectedly nostalgic, observed the pair of them sitting there; Aidan was very clearly smitten with the girl with whom he was sitting, and she seemed to return the attention equally, squeezing the hand that he held across the table. Though he could only see her mostly in profile, she was very pretty, with delicate features and a pert nose, trendy specs that suited her well, and a head of strawberry blonde hair styled messily into a perky bob. He smiled then took a few steps towards the table, intending on saying hello and introducing himself to her. The closer he'd gotten, however, the more obvious it had become that Aidan had seen him, was aware of his presence, but was ignoring him; this was confirmed when Aidan glanced to him briefly then turned his back on him slightly, saying without words or overt actions not to come any closer. He respected his son's wishes and said nothing, just kept walking past.

Bridget, Aidan, Lizzie; they were moving forward. Mark was not.

The irony was that his closest confidant during this most trying of times was Portia. He did not have the support system of Bridget's friends, who understandably took her side, and Portia always seemed to be there to offer an ear when he needed it. It was odd to him, took some getting used to, because for the better part of two decades, his closest confidante had been Bridget.

Now that January had arrived, Mark felt lonelier than ever; it was difficult to return each day to the reality of an empty house, one that was once filled with sound, with laughter, with love. Mark had not even attended the Turkey Curry Buffet; he had felt it best to stay away. In his own way he missed that too.

…

Despite the fact that divorce proceedings had already begun, Mark's relationship with Bridget, their very marriage, seemed to irrevocably turn a corner in mid-January and onto a dead-end street. He'd often had supper with Portia simply because it was better than eating alone in his empty house, and that night was no different. Their meals were always business-related and despite that single scotch-soaked night, they had continued on in a professional capacity only.

The same could not be said for another couple having dinner.

Over the din of the crowd Mark's attention was piqued by the sound of a very familiar laugh. He looked around the restaurant and in a moment spotted her. Bridget. With the way her hair was done in soft curls and pinned up and off of her neck, with the low neckline of the red dress she wore, he almost didn't believe it was her, but then she laughed again, and he knew without a doubt. She was seated at a table with a man with a head of unruly, dark curly hair and a pleasant, open and earnest smile, one that Bridget was reciprocating. In fact, it seemed very clear that he was flirting with her… and she was clearly not only appreciative of the attention, but was flirting in return. At least until she saw Mark.

"Mark," came a voice from beside him. "Everything all right?"

He saw Bridget's gaze flick to his companion and back, her brow creasing.

"Yes," he said, his voice sounding quite hollow. "Pardon me for a moment."

He rose and strode the short distance to their table. Bridget met his gaze until he looked to the stranger, who regarded Mark querulously.

"Hello, Bridget," Mark said crisply.

The man with Bridget asked, "May we help you?"

"Sebastian, this is Mark Darcy," Bridget supplied. Sebastian stood to his full height; Mark realised they were pretty much eye to eye.

"Ah, Aidan's father." He stuck his hand out and chuckled. "And Lizzie too, of course. Delightful girl. Pleasure to meet you," he said as Mark accepted his handshake. Mark was stunned that the man was already acquainted with his children. "I'm Sebastian Chamberlain." The name rang distant bells in its familiarity. "We met on the set of her show, Bridget and I, I mean." That was when it struck Mark; the man was an author. "I understand you're a barrister? Human rights?"

"Yes," said Mark, then looked to Bridget again. "May I speak with you in private?"

Sebastian looked a bit taken aback, but took his seat as Bridget rose from hers. "Yes," she said with a crispness to match his own of earlier. She walked away towards where the toilets were, and as they reached the little corridor just prior to the doors for the gents and ladies, she turned and faced him.

"What are you doing here with that man?" he asked in a hushed though insistent tone.

"And you're here alone, are you?" she volleyed back tersely, looking pointedly towards his table. "I didn't think so. Is that Portia?"

"We're talking business over dinner."

"Yes, just like you were working late in the office, I'm sure." She was far less prone to tears than she was when this had all begun; in recent days when they spoke there was more of an edge of anger in her voice than anything.

"You didn't answer my question," he said.

"Frankly, Mark, you surrendered the right to ask me that question," she said sharply in return, "but I don't mind answering because _I_ have nothing to be ashamed of. Sebastian happens to be one of your son's favourite authors. He appeared on my show and I asked if he would be amenable to meeting Aidan. He agreed." After a pause, she added, her tone softening, "We hit it off quite well and he asked me to dinner. I didn't see any reason not to accept. He's very witty, _very_ friendly. I like him. And—" Just like that she snapped back to the harder tone. "—I would really like to return to my dinner with him. We were just dissecting the fatally flawed logic of modern conservatives; very enlightening."

Mark was not about to take the bait. "Enjoy your dinner," he said.

"Mark? Is everything all right?" Out of nowhere, Portia was at his side, placing her hand on his upper arm out of concern, then looking to Bridget. "Oh, hello." She extended a hand to Bridget. "I'm Portia Fawkes. I work with Mark."

"Bridget Jones," she replied with a cloyingly sweet smile, accepting and shaking cordially. "I've heard a lot about you—nice to meet you at last. Love your suit, very flattering, and just the right colour. Well." She turned her gaze from Portia to Mark, then back again. "Have a _lovely_ evening. I should return to my table. Sebastian will worry."

As Bridget strode away, the silky fabric of her dress swaying with every step, Mark was reeling inside; the nicest thing he'd ever heard Bridget say about the way his female colleagues dressed was that at least they coordinated well with the furniture in chambers. She must have been taking the piss out of Portia. Her behaviour was so like the Bridget he'd first met and grown to love, the verbal parrying in which they'd engaged when she was still dating Daniel Cleaver, that it made him as annoyed as he was wistfully nostalgic.

Portia said, interrupting his thoughts, "She seems very nice, and you've told her about me? I just _love_ her dress! How do you know her? She seems vaguely familiar." He realised he hadn't spoken yet when Portia further prompted, "Who is she?"

Through clenched teeth, Mark responded, "My wife."

Portia could not hide her shock and gracefully recovered from an unseemly jaw-dropping by saying, "I didn't know. She seemed far too young to have a son Aidan's age."

"You couldn't have known," said Mark. "Let's go back to our table."

They returned shortly before their food arrived, stowing work while they ate, which was just as well, because all Mark could think of was that Bridget was there with another man. On a date with another man. This hurt him as much as the fact that she'd introduced herself to Portia with her maiden name only.

"I'm going to guess you'll want to skip coffee and dessert."

"Pardon?" he asked, snapping back to the present.

Portia looked sympathetic. "I can understand why you're upset," she said. "Being confronted with proof that your ex has moved on is always difficult. First time she's dating?"

He blinked; he didn't actually know for sure. "I think so."

Portia reached and patted his hand. "Must be very difficult," she said. "Especially to see another man benefit from your investment…."

Mark knit his brow. "What do you mean?"

She winked. "The appearance of youth _that_ convincing surely came with a very steep price tag."

Mark was stunned. "Bridget has never had any cosmetic procedures," he said gruffly. "She has never needed them, and I wouldn't have allowed her to."

Portia had the good grace to look mortified. "I am sorry," she said. "I did not mean to offend. It's just… well, that's usually the case and… I made a foolish assumption."

He felt his metaphorical feathers smooth again. "Apology accepted," he said. "Though you're right. I think I'd prefer to skip dessert."

He hailed the server who came by and took his card for payment. He tried his best to avoid looking at Bridget and Sebastian's table as they left, but it could not be avoided as it sat between where they were and the exit. He need not have worried; Bridget did not look at them as they passed.

Mark was not usually a talkative man, but he was especially quiet that night as he drove back towards the office, the point from which they'd departed earlier that evening, and to which they had intended on returning to continue working.

He felt her hand upon his own as it rested on the gearshift. "Mark. I think perhaps you've worked enough today. You need to relax."

As he pulled into a spot along the kerb, he sighed and closed his eyes. She was completely correct. He did need to relax. "Yes," he said. "I should. Give me a moment and I'll walk you to your car."

The soft skin of her fingers retreated from his hand, only to touch his knee a moment later, squeezing gently. He looked to her; she was certainly attractive in her way, though did not compare to Bridget in his estimation. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Just want you to know that if you need a friend, I'm here," she said quietly, watching her fingers moving in small circles. She then turned her gaze to meet his, hazel eyes glinting like amber in the lamplight. His thoughts were in a whirl; in his mind, in his heart, he was still bound to Bridget, though the reality was that the bond had been shattered. Deep down he knew it, even if he chose not to acknowledge it. Seeing Bridget with another man had churned up the absurdity of his denial; it was over, she had moved on, so why shouldn't he? Though he was not in love with Portia, he did feel a fondness for her; she had been there for him during this trying time when almost no one else had been.

As she closed her eyes, as she leaned forward in what obviously a prelude to a kiss, he said, "Portia, wait, no."

She opened her eyes again, big and soulful. "What is it, Mark?" she asked.

"Tonight has been too much for me," he said. "My thoughts are scattered and that isn't fair to you."

"Mark, I'm happy to be there in whatever capacity you need," she said. "As for… _intimacy_, well, as much as it pains me to dredge up those events for you, it isn't as if we haven't already gone there."

He blinked rapidly, looking away.

"So if I can comfort you in that way," she continued, sliding her hand up his thigh a few inches, "I'd love to do so."

She leaned forward again and brought her lips to his; they were soft, gentle, not at all greedy, and despite everything he found himself returning the kiss, found himself not wanting to be alone. She drew back, smiling softly.

With nothing further said, he pulled way from the kerb and drove them to his house.

…

Mark awoke that next morning to a rush of memories from the evening before, and upon seeing the dark head of hair on the pillow beside him, he felt empty, felt a sense of loss; to have woken up with a woman who was not Bridget underscored that the intimacy he'd had with his almost-ex-wife was rare, indeed. The night with Portia was nothing compared to even the clumsiest, most disaster-ridden evenings with Bridget, because he at least felt as if he could laugh with her. Portia had seemed too focused on maintaining her composure.

Mark was, however, determined to move forward.

He rose from the bed, slipped into his robe, and went down to the kitchen. As he put together a pot of coffee, he thanked his lucky stars that the children were not slated to visit until the following day.

Portia was just rousing when he returned with the coffee. She saw him bearing the mugs and smiled. "I guess it's only fair," she said drowsily as she sat up; she modestly covered up with the sheet, but for that flash just prior when he caught a glimpse of her thin body, small breasts, he realised how much he had taken Bridget's curvy form for granted.

Determined.

"I guess," he replied, knowing she was referring obliquely to the coffee she'd brought that morning the first time they'd spent the night together. He handed one to her. "Hope it's to your liking."

"I'm sure it's fine," she said, accepting it, then sipping the mug. As she did, he saw her gaze flit about the room. "It's very sparse in here, Mark. I would have expected the master suite to have a bit more décor, and to be a bit larger, actually."

He sat, not sure how to broach the subject that this was the room he had taken to staying in since Bridget had gone, that he could not yet bring himself to sleep in their former bedroom. "It's not the master suite," he said at last.

She looked very querulous, but did not press the matter, only sipped the coffee and smiled fondly at him.

…

Their liaisons became habit, though not a nightly one; she seemed eager to respect his wishes that she not stay when the children were due to visit at the same time, but Mark knew in short order that Portia would need to formally meet the children. She suggested perhaps dinner the weekend following, two weeks since their affair had really commenced, but Mark didn't think Lizzie's birthday weekend was the best occasion for it.

"Oh, I disagree," she said. "I think she would like very much to know I care that it's her birthday." Portia furrowed her brow. "She does know about me, doesn't she?"

The fact was that Aidan and Lizzie were only slowly warming back to him; their visits were spent mostly in silence, and when they did speak to him it seemed only out of a sense of duty. Aidan had made it perfectly plain that he believed his father had been having an affair for some time, and his opinion seemed to have infected his sister to a degree.

"I haven't really explained in detail," said Mark, "though I will talk to them and to Bridget about this."

As he said Bridget's name, he saw a slight look of… well, he wasn't sure what it was on Portia's face, only that it was not a pleasant look. "I only ask that you give it thought," she said. "I'd really like to meet them. If they're like you only by half…" She smiled winningly. "I'm sure we'll get along fine."

That same night he phoned Bridget to discuss the children meeting Portia, only to hear a man's voice pick up the line on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Yes, sorry, I must have dialled the wrong number," he said absently, though rationally he knew he couldn't have misdialled a number programmed into memory.

"If you're looking for Bridge, hold on. She's here."

As the phone was passed to her, Mark realised who it was who must have answered, and it incensed him to think she had not had the same consideration he was about to show.

"Yes?" asked Bridget.

"Is that Sebastian?" Mark asked.

"Mark?"

"Yes."

"Yes, it is," she said. "We're making supper."

"For the children?"

"No," she said. "They went out to the pictures together."

He was not sure he liked it better thinking Aidan and Lizzie were there with her new boyfriend, or were not there and out at the cinema, unsupervised by adults. He decided to drop it for the moment. "I needed to talk to you about them."

"What is it?"

He took in a deep breath, feeling hypocritical after so many prior denials of a relationship, and sad at the thought she might think even less of him. "They haven't met Portia yet, and… I thought they should."

Bridget was very quiet. "Oh," she said at last. "What did you have in mind?"

"Supper on Friday, or lunch on Saturday," said Mark. "Just the four of us."

"Oh," she said again. "But it's Lizzie's birthday."

"On Sunday," he said. "I know. Nothing has changed for that. Plans are still on. I promise." Bridget had planned a small family party on Sunday afternoon that he had been invited to attend.

After many moments she said, "I don't really see why not," she said at last.

"I just wanted to run it by you first," he said. "I didn't want to catch you by surprise."

"I… appreciate it," she said. "I'll let them know, if you like, so they're not caught by surprise, either."

"Sure," he said.

They arranged that the children would stay over on Friday, have lunch at the house on Saturday then Lizzie would return to Bridget's for a sleepover with her friends while Aidan stayed with him. Then on Sunday, Mark and Aidan would return to spend Lizzie's birthday lunch with family.

"I should go. The pasta's beeping." Her tone seemed suddenly different; he knew the sound of emotion in her voice when he heard it.

"I'll see you then," he said, just as she disconnected.

As he lowered the phone from his ear, he sighed. The concept of arranging his time with his children between two homes still seemed so strange, so abstract to him. It was, however, his reality now.

…

Bridget's new place in Notting Hill—a coat of pastel blue adorned the outside, very like her—was not terribly far from the house in Holland Park, which made getting the children back and forth between the two much easier. When they arrived on Friday night to the house, to Mark's, they came alone, which Mark had mentioned on more than one occasion he wished she wouldn't encourage, and to which she would always reply that they weren't babies, and that Aidan would take care of his sister if it came down to it.

"We know he can land a punch," she had said with a surprising hint of humour in her voice. "Like father, like son."

He greeted them in the foyer with a smile. Lizzie went up to him and gave him a hug immediately, which he took as a good sign. "Can't believe you're going to be twelve," he murmured as he kissed her on the top of the head. It seemed to him she was taller than she had been, even still. "Remember so vividly the day you were born," he continued wistfully.

"Oh, Dad," she said sheepishly, giggling, and as she drew away he saw the pink tinge on her skin.

Then he looked to Aidan, and the hardness of his son's gaze broke his heart. "Aidan," he said. "How are you? How's school?"

He shrugged. "All right, I guess," he said.

"Still doing computer programming? Enjoying it?"

He nodded, then looked up the stairs. "Is it okay if I go up to my room? I have some homework to do."

Mark knew the reason was not homework so much as not to be near his father. "Just a moment. I need to talk to you both." He watched as the two of them drew near to each other, how Aidan took an almost protective stance beside his sister. "I know you've both had to go through a lot of changes lately, and it means more than I can say that you're here." Aidan made a scoffing sound. "There's someone I would like you to meet."

"_Her_, right?" said Aidan. "That woman. Mum said." He tensed his jaw.

"Aidan," Mark said curtly. "Yes. I would like to you meet Portia."

Lizzie looked confused. "Is she your girlfriend, Dad?"

It wasn't as simple as that, but trying to explain the nuances to Lizzie would be next to impossible. "We're friends," said Mark. "It's not as serious as girlfriend."

"But it's serious enough to—"

"Aidan," he said again sharply, interrupting his son. "She's coming to have lunch with us here tomorrow. I ask that you be nice to her. Nothing that's happened has been her fault."

Aidan said, "Yeah. We know who was at fault."

Mark couldn't disagree. "Will you promise me that?" He looked from Aidan to Lizzie. "Both of you?"

Slowly, Lizzie nodded and gave him a little smile.

"We promised Mum we'd act like human beings," said Aidan, looking at Mark levelly. "We will. Now can I go upstairs?"

Mark closed his eyes briefly, feeling exasperated. "Yes. Go on."

Aidan dashed upstairs, but to his surprise, Lizzie stayed in place.

"You can go to your room if you like. I'll call you for supper."

"If it's all the same," she said with a smirk, "I'd like to make you my famed pasta."

He smiled, walked over to her and gave her a hug. "I would love nothing more."

Making dinner with Lizzie allowed Mark to forget for just a little while that this was not his everyday routine anymore, and not for the first time he realised how much he had taken such things for granted when he'd had them. The meal itself was not unpleasant, though interaction with Aidan was minimal for most of the meal.

"I'm having trouble with my notebook computer," Mark said between bites, hoping to find a common point for conversation with his son. "To the point where I can hardly use it. Do you think you might have a look at it for me?"

Aidan raised his gaze to his father. "Me?"

"Unless your sister is suddenly a computer expert."

"It could happen," she teased.

"Uh, yeah, I guess," Aidan said, shoving another forkful of pasta into his mouth. "What's it doing?"

"Just slows down doing the simplest of things."

"Mm, and have you defragged lately?"

"Have I what?"

Mark was pleased to see Aidan actually smile a little at that as he speared more pasta. "Yeah, I'll have a look."

"I appreciate it," Mark said. He decided to sally forth. "So, you have a girlfriend?"

"Mm-hmm," said Aidan.

"She's pretty," said Lizzie.

"I don't doubt it," said Mark. "What's her name?"

Aidan set his fork down, clinking it against the plate. "I'm done," he said, rising to his feet. "Notebook's in your office?"

"Yes, but the password—" began Mark.

"I know the password," said Aidan as he headed for the stairs to the main floor.

A few quiet moments after Aidan's departure, during which Mark finished his dinner, Lizzie spoke up. "It's Marilyn."

"Pardon?"

"His girlfriend."

"Oh," he said, then offered her a smile. "Is she nice?"

Lizzie nodded. "She's really nice to me."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said, feeling unexpectedly emotional. He rose to his feet. "I'm going to see how things are with Aidan and my computer."

"Okay." Lizzie looked to her empty plate.

"If you want, we can watch a film together."

"With Aidan?"

"He's welcome to, but whether he'll want to…" said Mark, then broke off; no need to remind her that her brother was currently less than friendly towards him. "Why don't you go pick something out we all would like?"

She smiled brightly to him. "I'll load up the dishwasher first."

When Mark got to the office, he found Aidan at work on his notebook, a curious expression on his face as he looked at the screen. Mark had no idea what could account for it. "How's the patient?" Mark asked in what he hoped was a light tone.

The expression changed, became more neutral; without looking up he said, "Ran the disk clean-up routine, and there's a huge amount of fragmentation, Dad. Really ought to do this more often, so I set it up as a task for you. It'll run once a week on Friday night. And your virus scanner didn't have anything scheduled, so that'll go on Saturday night." He met Mark's gaze at last. "What are you using to back this up?"

"Back what up?"

Aidan rolled his eyes, but in a more playful way, more like his old self. "Dad, if this thing ever failed catastrophically, if it ever got pinched, you would be up—well, you'd lose everything. You should have a back-up program installed and have it do nightly backups."

"What would I need for that?" asked Mark.

Aidan went on to explain he'd need a large external hard drive and some software to achieve this end. "Possibly some encryption software if there's sensitive stuff on here… or at least a stronger password," he said with a hint of disappointment. "Do you use this computer a lot?"

"Every day," Mark said. "It goes where I do. Why do you ask?"

Aidan's gaze dropped to the computer again. "No reason in particular." He stood from the seat. "Just let it finish what it's doing and it should be fine."

"Thanks, Aidan," said Mark.

He nodded.

"You know, we would like it very much if you joined us in watching a film," Mark said.

He seemed to consider it for a moment. "Sure," said Aidan, then added, "'cause it's Lizzie's birthday."

Mark smiled; despite being glad Aidan was joining them, it was disappointing to hear that he was doing it only for his sister. "I'll meet you there."

After Aidan departed, Mark went around his desk and found that every program had been closed or minimised, revealing his desktop wallpaper: a picture from years ago of Bridget, standing in partial profile with her giant pregnant belly and an equally giant smile on her face. There was no progress window for a utility program as he'd expected, which made Mark very curious; at what exactly had Aidan been looking? The desktop image itself?

Lizzie's film was something that she had seen a dozen times before, a smart comedy that happened to have a slight romantic bend to it; Mark was more than a bit grateful it was not _The Wizard of Oz_ given the circumstances under which he'd last seen that film. Mark gave Aidan credit for staying and watching, and for a ninety minute stretch it was a little like old times; in fact, Mark twice caught himself glancing over and expecting Bridget to be sitting there.

As the credits rolled at the end, she switched off the player with a moony smile on her face. "Love that film," she said. "Always makes me warm inside."

"Just so long as you realise that endings aren't always happy," remarked Aidan, looking pointedly but sadly at his father. "Night, Lizzie. Night, Dad."

"Night, Aidan," said Lizzie, then looked to her father. "I'm gonna go to bed too. Tired." She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "See you in the morning."

Mark watched her retreat, still not having said a word. Mark was still considering Aidan's words, particularly as Mark had had his happy ending, and had ruined it.


	6. Chapter 6: Best Behaviour

**Change of Heart**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 6,421 (this chapter)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6: Best Behaviour<strong>

"Are they excited to meet me?"

This came in hushed tones from Portia the moment she came into the house, looking around almost furtively. In her hand she carried a wrapped gift, undoubtedly something for Lizzie, which was very thoughtful of her. She thrust the present at Mark while she slipped out of her overcoat.

Mark smiled. He took her coat as she took back the gift she'd brought. "They're already downstairs," he said. "Come and find out."

As he fixed her coat upon a peg on the coat tree, Portia strode forward and headed down the stairs. Mark trailed close behind her but she was on the lower level before he was halfway down the staircase. Before he could speak up and do proper introductions, she spoke for herself.

"Aidan," she said. "Lovely to meet you again." Mark watched his son for signs of response at the vague reference to the one and only other time they'd met; only the tensing of his jaw gave anything away. "You're such a handsome young man, take after your father. And you must be Lizzie," she went on, turning an incandescent smile towards his daughter. "Such a little lady! How adorable you are!" she cooed, then held out the wrapped gift. "This is for you, sweetie. Happy birthday!"

Lizzie looked at her father and reached with the tentativeness of a suspicious mouse faced with a bit of cheese in a trap. He nodded, letting her know it was okay; at this she accepted with a polite, "Thank you."

"Oh, go ahead and open now!" Portia said, clasping her hands together over her chest. "It's really all right."

Lizzie looked to Mark again, who nodded once more. She then tore the paper off of the box, which was about as long as Lizzie's forearm and a hand-width wide. As the paper fell to the ground, Mark had words of reminder poised on his tongue for her to pick them up, at least until he saw the writing on the box, saw what the present was through the clear cellophane of the box.

It was a fashion dress-up doll with long blonde hair and an improbably proportioned body, shiny satin clothing and arms that were pre-formed into a bent position. Lizzie had not had a baby doll since she was five, and had never in her life been interested in this sort of doll. She looked to her father with wide, aghast eyes.

"Thank you, Miss Fawkes," supplied Mark.

"Thank you," echoed Lizzie, looking to the bright pink box in her hand as if it were an unexploded land mine. "That was very thoughtful of you, Miss Fawkes."

"Oh, dear one, you _must_ call me Portia," she said.

"Thank you," repeated Lizzie, "_Portia_."

"Oh, you are very welcome, darling," she said, then reached and gave Lizzie a hug. She made a face that only her father could see, and Mark felt her discomfort acutely. Like her father, Lizzie was not physically affectionate with people with whom she was not close. Portia pulled back, and Mark watched Lizzie's face transform back into one of placid friendliness. Portia looked to Mark. "So what are we having?"

"Lizzie made it," said Mark with a smile. "You'll have to ask her."

He was thankful that Portia's expression was not visible to the children, because she could not hide the surprise or faint disgust that passed over her features. "Oh, well, that's fun," she said in an over-compensatory fashion. "What did you make, Lizzie?"

"Pasta salad," she said. "Mozzarella, tomato, basil, some chicken, black olives…" She drifted off, looking slightly overwhelmed.

"I am sure it will be lovely," Portia said cloyingly, then swept over towards the sideboard table. She picked up a framed photo there, one Mark vividly remembered taking of Bridget playfully but menacingly lunging towards him with a heaping spoonful of cake batter, then appeared to inspect it before setting it back down facing the wall. "Aidan, bring the bowl on over for your sister and some plates too, will you? There's a dear."

Aidan stared at her, then at Mark, as if to say, _Is this woman for real?_

"Aidan," said Mark quietly. "If you'd please bring the bowl, I'll get some plates."

Aidan nodded, then turned for the kitchen countertop as Mark did as he said he would. When he returned with the place, he restored Bridget's cake batter photo to its rightful place, and as he did he glanced up to see Aidan observing him do so. Aidan gave him a little smile.

Upon seeing the shaped pasta that Lizzie had chosen for the occasion, Portia looked condescendingly amused. "How adorable," she said. "Cute little bowties."

Lizzie knit her brows. "It's real Italian pasta, and that's called _farfalle_."

Portia glanced to Mark; for the first time he could tell she sensed her ship was sinking.

"I'll serve," Mark said, in lieu of anything else coming to mind. "Lizzie is very talented in the kitchen. She is always making tasty things for us, and I'm sure this will be no exception."

"I'm sure it will be lovely," said Portia again as Mark scooped out a generous portion for her, then some for Lizzie, for Aidan, and finally some for himself. After taking up a speared forkful and having a taste, she said, "Quite delightful! Aren't you a little talent, Lizzie? Take after your mum in the kitchen, then?"

Mark found himself chuckling before he could think better of it. He was the only one who did; he felt the scrutiny of both his children's gaze upon him and he at once knew his mistake. Under normal circumstances—that is, prior to the split—they would have all chuckled. Not now. Now this was an attack on their mother.

"I only meant," Mark said hastily, "that Lizzie takes more after me in that respect."

There was a silence that stretched on for far too long; Mark struggled to think of something to fill in the gap, when suddenly, he did not need to.

"Father, might I be excused get Elisabeth and myself something to drink?" Aidan's expression was open and inquisitive, though he had bizarrely affected a strange, posh accent. He turned then to his sister. "Some sparkling water, Elisabeth?"

He saw Lizzie fighting back a laugh. Lizzie, with all due solemnity, replied, "I would love some sparkling water, thank you. With a dash of lemon juice, please."

"_Anything_ for you, dear sister. Father? Perhaps I could get some wine for you and your lady friend?"

Mark opened his mouth to request that his son join him in the kitchen for a chat when Portia cooed, "Such a polite young man. I would love some wine."

Deferentially Aidan bowed his head then rose to his feet. "Pardon me." Aidan walked away, and Mark watched as he reached for the bottle of sparkling water, pouring two glasses and putting in a dash of lemon for Lizzie. He did not quite understand what was going on, why the show of exaggerated manners, but then Portia began talking to Lizzie.

"How are you liking school? If you're like your father you must be the smartest one in the class. What do you think you'll want to be when you grow up?"

Lizzie appeared to think about it for a few moments; she was a very good student, good enough that she'd certainly have her choice of universities when the time came, but she had never really been one of those children who had rattled off a procession of future dream jobs: astronaut, veterinarian, ballerina, and so forth. Mark had always considered she was privately mulling over her future choices but never wanted to share what those choices would be.

However, in the present moment her face got very bright with a full smile. "Oh, without a doubt I want to work in forensics," she said with a level of avidness usually reserved for a really good book she'd read. "You know, crime scene analysis. Like on the telly. Blood spatter and bullet hole trajectories. It's really cool stuff."

He saw Portia's face drain of all colour even as a shaky smile found her lips. "How charming," she managed. "You must be very bright to want to do that."

For a moment Mark was really convinced Lizzie might actually be serious, but he saw the tell-tale curl of the corner of her mouth just as she raised a forkful of pasta up for a bite.

That was when he understood: she was making fun. They both were; the posh accent was mocking Portia's. Rather than be upset, however, Mark felt a mixture of sadness and amusement, both stemming from the fact that Portia didn't seem to understand she was being played. In all honesty, Mark felt a bit like Portia deserved it for acting like she was the mistress of his house.

Before Mark knew it Aidan was back with a tray full of drinks. He presented a glass of chilled white wine to Portia first, which she accepted with a smile, then the sparking water to his sister; to his father, Aidan gave his preferred red before setting his own drink down. As he did this he offered a smile that seemed wholly sincere.

"Oh, this is an excellent vintage!" said Portia after drawing some of the wine out of her glass. "Then again, I should expect no less in this house," she added, looking towards Mark and giving him a little wink. He saw Aidan smile a little bit more widely, caught him winking at Lizzie, who winked back.

Mark suddenly couldn't wait for the lunch to be over.

Portia asked Aidan in turn what he wanted to be when he grew up—as if he wasn't already as tall as his father and shaving daily—and Aidan too looked thoughtful. "I'm quite skilled with computers," he said coolly. "Thought I might go to uni for programming then get into freelancing for some of the former Russian states. Very lucrative work."

He felt his jaw tense; the woman might have had a sharp legal mind but she clearly had no idea that he was referring to some of grey-area programming typically referred to as 'malware', and that he too was not being serious. At least Mark hoped he wasn't being serious. "Aidan," he said coolly.

"What, Father? It's a great field to get into," Aidan said. "Practically recession-proof." The gaze he gave his son stopped the conversation from continuing; Portia did not notice.

After they made short work of the pasta, all the while Portia singing its praises, Mark put on some coffee and brought out the small decorated cake he had purchased at a local patisserie.

"Do you have candles?" said Portia. "I would love to sing you 'Happy Birthday'."

"I believe we do," said Aidan, rising from his seat once more. "Let me go and find them, and grab a pack of matches or a lighter."

"Oh, they're above the sink," said Portia brightly.

Aidan turned. "Yes, I know," he said with all due politeness. "I do still live here at times."

Portia did seem a bit embarrassed, though they both smiled and she brushed it off. It was unmistakeably a dig at Mark. He chose not to respond.

When Portia sang Mark was sure there must have been dogs howling on the street in response; he had not thought anyone could carry a tune less successfully than Bridget, but he'd been wrong. They ate the cake, vanilla with strawberry icing, had a little vanilla ice cream and something more to drink. Portia demurred on more wine, opting for the sparkling water instead, seeing as she had to drive home, and that happened sooner rather than later to Mark's unexpected relief.

"This has been so much fun," Portia said beamingly. "It has been wonderful, absolutely _wonderful_ to meet you, and I so look forward to seeing you again!"

Aidan and Lizzie both wore bright smiles as they accepted quick, friendly hugs from her. "It was very nice meeting you too, ma'am," said Aidan with no hint of sarcasm in his voice. "I'm sure we'll see you again soon."

"I'll walk you upstairs," said Mark.

"Will I see you later, Mark?" she asked as they walked away. "Isn't Lizzie going to your ex-wife's?"

Mark still could not reconcile the concept of ex-wife with Bridget; though the divorce was not yet final it would be very soon. "She is, but Aidan's staying with me since Lizzie's having a sleep-over party with her friends."

Now at the top of the stairs, she turned to face him and pouted a little. "He's a big boy. Surely he'll go out with his friends or something."

"I don't know what our plans are," he said vaguely.

"Okay then." She leaned forward and pecked him on the lips. "Well. Until then."

As he descended back into the lower level he heard the tell-tale sound of table-clearing. Both children were grinning and Aidan was speaking. "—can't even believe she thought that stupid, cheap box wine of Mum's was quality vintage!" Then the two of them began to laugh, at least until they spotted that their father had returned.

Mark's instincts had been correct, but instead of feeling angry at them, he felt oddly embarrassed; his children obviously thought she was an idiot, which in turn made him feel like one, too.

"Sorry," said Lizzie, looking remorseful. "We were just having a bit of fun."

"So you don't want to study forensics," said Mark.

"Well, I don't know," she said. "It is kind of cool."

"She did make it sort of easy for us," said Aidan, referring to Portia.

"She was only trying to be nice," Mark said. "Did you perhaps consider she was just nervous to meet you?"

"She bought me a _doll_, Dad," she said in an exasperated tone, pouting. "Even if I ever liked that sort of thing, I'm going to be twelve. I'm a bit too old for it."

"She doesn't have children, so she might not know," he said, though realised it sounded like he was flailing for an excuse even as he spoke. "Just try to be more… normal in future."

They looked to one another, then back to him. "Sorry," they said again.

He sighed. "It's all right," he said. "I appreciate your forbearance, and that you were at least civil." He appreciated it too that they didn't seem to be overtly angry at him, at least not at the moment.

"Civil, Dad?" asked Aidan in his affected posh accent. "I was a perfect gentleman." He cracked a smile which caused Mark to smile too. Perhaps not all hope was lost with the boy.

Lizzie, understandably excited about her sleepover, wanted to return to Bridget's Notting Hill house as soon as possible to help prepare for the arrival of her friends, so they all got in the car for the short ride. They all went to the door and Aidan dug into his pocket for his key; as he looked up at the pale blue pastel façade, Mark felt as nervous waiting to enter as he had when he used to visit her flat years ago when they were dating and things had gotten rocky, partly because he had no idea how she would receive him, and partly because he didn't know how he'd react if Sebastian were there.

"Who's there? Lizzie?" Bridget came down from the upper floor and as she came into view and saw the three of them there, she smiled. "Oh, hi," she said. Fixing her gaze upon Mark, she said, "You know, you'll have to leave."

Mark's heart began to race. "What?"

"No boys allowed," she said, looking next to Aidan. "It's an all-pink sort of night."

"_Mum_," said Lizzie, though she seemed pleased at the thought. Mark only felt relief that Sebastian wouldn't be there.

Bridget held out her arms for her daughter; the two were now of equal height, though Lizzie with her long blonde locks and willowy limbs still folded easily into her mother's embrace. "Did you all have a nice lunch?"

"Oh, yes, it was fine," Lizzie said neutrally, then changed the subject with a bounce. "They'll be here soon! Did you make the punch?"

"I'll do it right now," she said with an air of mock weariness. "Go on, meet me in the kitchen."

"Okay," Lizzie said, stepping up and kissing her father on the cheek before dashing away, calling, "Bye, Dad!"

Aidan stepped forward to peck his mother's cheek. As he retreated, Bridget kept her gaze on him before turning it to Mark. "You two have a nice night together," she said softly. "See you for lunch tomorrow."

Mark nodded, suddenly feeling too emotional to speak.

"Bye, Mum."

With that they were once more on the front porch, heading for the car again.

"How about you and I have supper at the pub down the street from the house?" Mark asked suddenly as he stepped to the driver's side door.

Aidan gave him querulous glance over the roof of the car. "The pub? Sure."

As they drove, Aidan said, "You know, Dad, if you want to have Portia over I can make myself scarce."

"No," he said, surprising himself with the strength and curtness of his reply; the fact was, he did not want to have Portia over. "I just mean I'd rather spend time with you." He glanced to Aidan. "I'm… grateful that you're speaking to me again."

Aidan looked down, then out the window. "I was already feeling a bit whiplashed at the whole situation with Ethan—I mean, I was just following the advice you'd given me—"

"Advice?" interrupted Mark, bewildered. "What advice?"

"What I'd asked in the car," Aidan said. "You said that the right thing is not the easy thing to do. To fight for what's right."

Mark felt the pit of his stomach drop down; he'd had no idea the injustice of which Aidan had spoken had anything to do with Arthur, and he felt yet one more wave of guilt wash over him. In response he murmured a quiet, "Oh."

Aidan kept speaking. "Then there you were, with another woman. It was hard, Dad, to think you could do that to Mum." He then added hastily: "I mean, despite having really different opinions, you and Mum always seemed so happy, though I do realise I was probably being a bit idealistic, because people do fall out of love, get divorced…" He paused and sniffed. "Everyone makes mistakes, and I think in not telling Mum sooner, well, I know that would be a difficult conversation to have… I'm pretty sure you're sorry."

_More than I can ever say_, thought Mark, even as his heart lurched at the thought that his son believed him to be out of love with Bridget; nothing was further from the truth.

Aidan went on, although reluctantly. "And… if Portia makes you happy then I'll do my best to try to like her."

Mark cleared his throat; what would truly make him happy seemed impossible. "That means a lot to me, hearing you say that." He drew up in front of the house and parked the car; the two of them then began walking to the pub down the street and around the corner. "Aidan?"

"Hmm?"

"Sebastian. He's nice?"

"Yeah," Aidan said. "Really nice. Brilliant, really. You should read his books."

"I will." Mark paused before proceeding, because he wasn't sure how to ask what he wanted to ask, and wasn't sure if he really wanted to know. "Does… does your mother have him over?"

There was nothing but the sound of the city, of the scuffing of their shoes against concrete as they walked, for many minutes. "I'm not sure I should say."

Not saying anything had given Mark answer enough. "I'm not going to shout at you," he said. "I just want to know if she's happy."

"If Mum's happy?"

"Mm-mm."

More footfalls on the walk. "I guess," Aidan said at last. "She seems happy, anyway." He yanked the door of the pub open, then offered his father a smile. "Will you order me a beer?"

Mark laughed. "A cider. But only one."

They found a seat and Mark placed their order at the bar. As he returned with their drinks, he found himself in contemplation once again regarding his son, no longer a child, almost a fully grown adult. Mark had taken so much for granted: that his children would always be children; that the marriage he'd thought solid as a rock, now ruined by his own stupidity, would always last.

"What?"

Mark smiled wistfully; he hadn't realised he'd gotten to staring. "Something I could never explain to you," he said, "and something you may someday understand, too."

Aidan sipped his cider. "Ah, one of those 'when you're older and have children' things."

"Exactly," he said.

With the arrival of their fish and chips and Mark's second beer, Mark said to his son, "I assume that was a joke, earlier. About working freelance as a software designer for the former Soviet states."

Aidan laughed. "Well, yes," he said. "I mean, not about the programming part. I really think I could go into that field and never be bored."

Mark considered his son, considered how different he'd seemed since leaving Eton. How much happier he appeared to be. "I'm glad you're excited about it."

Aidan grinned crookedly. "You don't wish I were going into law?"

"Law isn't for everyone," he said. "As pegs we don't all fit into the same holes. Plus I enjoy having free in-house technical support."

Aidan laughed.

"On a serious note, I don't think I ever pressured you into a specific vocational track, did I?" asked Mark.

"No, not really," he said, though it didn't really sound convincing. "I just… so many times my mates at Eton would lament being pressured into medicine, or law, or into the financial field or whatever, just because their dads did. Or even their mums."

"Less of that where you are now?"

"Less, sure, but still too much of it."

Mark took another draw of beer but nearly choked on it when Aidan carried on speaking.

"Dad, I have a question," he began, then lowered his voice. "About sex."

He recovered himself nicely, swallowing the beer and setting it down, casually picking up a chip to eat. He'd known this day might come but he still felt as if he'd been caught flat-footed. "What about it?"

Aidan only laughed, slapping his hand over his mouth. "Oh, you should have seen yourself just now," he said, helpless with mirth. "I'm sorry. Maybe I should have asked Uncle Daniel instead. He's just back from Australia, you know."

"No, no," Mark said quickly, throwing the chip down. Daniel Cleaver and he had rediscovered their old friendship, patched up all the old hurts, after Daniel had given up trying to bed Bridget, had accepted that they were married and that Bridget was to bear Mark's child. Despite mended fences—always proper with Bridget and civil with himself, to the point where the children thought of him as the goofy uncle they'd never had—Daniel was the last person from whom he wanted his son taking sex advice. "I will live through this mortification. Ask away."

"Well." Now it was Aidan's turn to blush. "Marilyn and I, we've been seeing each other since November. I really like her, we get along really well—and I am so, _so_ sorry, by the way, that day in the café. I should have introduced you."

"It's all right," said Mark; the wound from that had long since healed.

"I can do that tomorrow. She's coming over for Lizzie's birthday," he said in a great rush. "Anyway. She's just brilliant, and so pretty and…" He gripped his pint glass. "I think I'm ready for more."

"And… you want to _know_ more?" Mark asked tentatively.

Aidan pursed his lips, repressing a smile. "Well, I know the basics in theory," he said. "Though I do want to be responsible and that's something else altogether. No. My question is that, while I think she's ready too, how do I bring it up without blowing everything up if she really isn't?"

Mark struggled to think of his past, his pre-marriage strategy with women, and realised the boldest move he'd ever made to let a woman know how he'd felt had been returning from New York for Bridget; most of his other experiences had been initiated by the woman herself. "I'll do my best, son," said Mark, "but might not your mother be better suited for this?"

Aidan sipped his cider, ate a chip, obvious ploys to hide his nervousness. "I tried, Dad, but I couldn't," he said at last. "I mean I tried to think how to put it. She can't know what it feels to be in a man's shoes and I need that perspective."

He nodded, though he was no closer to knowing what the best advice would be to give in this situation… but then the words just started to flow. "Just say how you feel," he said, remembering advice given so very long ago by his own mother. "I mean, you can also say that it isn't the end of the world or the end of your relationship if she isn't ready. You never know until you ask—perhaps she has been just as worried to broach the subject herself."

Aidan fixed his gaze down on his glass, but Mark saw the slight smile. "Perhaps," he said. He looked up at last. "It sounds so easy when you put it like that. Thanks."

Mark had certainly learned his lesson over the years regarding the perils of miscommunication. "Don't mention it," he said, then grinned a little himself; even as he did he could hardly believe he was having this talk with his son. "You know, I could make myself scarce—"

"_Dad_," Aidan said with abject embarrassment, turning bright red even as he laughed and hid his face behind his hand.

"We're never going to have the 'responsible' conversation as this rate," said Mark, finishing the last of his beer.

As they left the pub, Mark realised his spirits had not been so high in some time. He thought it likely had to do with forging this new bond with Aidan, one for which he was quite grateful.

After arriving home, Aidan scaled the stairs in heading for his room; this time there was no uneasiness in Mark's stomach, knowing truly that Aidan was not just avoiding him. Shortly after that, there was a knock on the front door. Dread washed over him; he did not want to see Portia and he was not sure he wanted to see her at all again in any personal capacity after that disastrous lunch.

However, it would not do to be a coward about facing her now. Surely she knew he was home with his son, and Mark was beyond hiding for avoidance's sake. Mark strode to the front door, pulled it open—

He did not expect to see Daniel Cleaver standing there. He was browned and wore a very serious expression on his face. "Mark," he said.

"Daniel," he said with a slightly surprised tone of voice. "I just heard tonight you were back. How was your holiday?"

"Actually, went for work, stayed for Jacinta. Not a bad way to spend three months, not at all." Turning more serious, he said, "Would have come to see you sooner, but I've had some god-awful jet lag." He pointed inside. "Are you going to ask me in? Freezing out here with this sunburn."

"Yes, sorry." He stepped back to allow Daniel passage. "What brings you here rather than ring me up?"

"Too important," Daniel said in return. "Are you alone?"

"No, Aidan's upstairs in his room."

"Ah. Yes, I suppose he would be. Can we speak in private? This… concerns him."

They went to Mark's office and Daniel closed the door behind them. It didn't latch, though Mark was not concerned it needed to. "I didn't want to just… call," said Daniel without prompting. "I saw Bridge and the children at the studio on Wednesday. Saw Aidan. I'm really worried, Mark."

The way Daniel said it made Mark concerned tenfold. "Worried?"

"About your son. I… saw some things in him I found to be all too familiar."

"What do you mean?"

"He's angry. _Really_ angry. Not the sort of anger that roils up and expresses itself via broken windows and hurled pottery, but a sort of… deep, simmering rage. Sullen, quiet until he's not. Snaps at slightest provocation. That's not like Aidan at all."

Daniel was right. Mark had observed and worried about those very same things too; it however had seemed that the rage, at least as directed towards himself, had evaporated or at the least had become much reduced with little explanation since yesterday.

Daniel went on. "I must urge you to do whatever you can to make things right. Fix things for their sake, not that I think that's the only reason you'd do so. I've been in his shoes and though I know things were hopeless for my mum and dad, I know things can't possibly be hopeless for you and Bridge."

"She's seeing someone else."

Dismissively, Daniel blew air through his lips. "That isn't what she really wants. I know her too well. And I know you, and how you feel about Bridge."

Mark did not respond right away. He knew of Daniel's childhood, suspected that most of Daniel's personality flaws, defence mechanisms and other problems stemmed from the traumatic divorce of his parents. When Mark did speak, his voice was quiet. "She won't have me back, Daniel. God knows I'd take her back in a heartbeat, but what I've done has broken things beyond repair."

Daniel's steady blue gaze was slightly unnerving. "So what actually happened?"

It occurred to Mark that in all of the time that had passed, no one had actually asked him for his side of the story. They had all assumed—even his mother—that he'd been sleeping with Portia all along, that going to the office was a pre-planned tryst, that Aidan's appearance had shed light on an on-going infidelity. "Bridget and I had a fight about Aidan, about why he'd been expelled from Eton, punching out someone he disliked over a younger boy being bullied. She wanted to take it up with the younger boy's parents, while I felt it was just a flimsy excuse to cover the fact that thanks to his temper, he conveniently got himself kicked out of a school he disliked. You know he can have a temper at times."

"Like someone else I know," said Daniel wryly, running his hand over a jaw Mark had himself punched once upon a time.

"I said some things that I regret—that I regretted almost immediately—about her skills as a parent, about wanting to coddle him instead of making him responsible for his own actions because he wouldn't always have someone to look after him… the way I've looked after her."

Daniel grimaced. Mark felt the same way.

"In my anger I decided I would head back to my office to calm down, to get some work done, but instead I indulged in some scotch I'd stocked in the office. Then Portia showed up and… well, I'm afraid I don't remember much after that. But in the middle of… _something_, Aidan showed up and… caught us."

"Oh, fuck me," Daniel blurted breathlessly.

"Yeah," Mark said. "But I have to say: we hadn't been having an affair. I admit I had been spending a lot of time at the office working on a really rough case. Unfortunately, in retrospect, all of my prior late-night absences were thought of in the worst possible light. And I felt so badly for what I'd done I thought there was nothing I could say to excuse it, so I didn't even try."

"So you didn't," he said, "even though you bloody well should have."

"Hindsight is twenty-twenty," he said. "Then divorce proceedings began, she moved out…. If I could do things differently, believe me, I would."

"The question is," said Daniel, "how can you make things right, now?"

"I don't know," Mark admitted, then laughed hollowly. "I do know I don't much want to spend the rest of my life with someone like Portia."

"Wait," said Daniel. "I thought you weren't seeing her."

"She was a friend to me through all of this." He felt ashamed to admit that they had begun sleeping together.

"But then you heard about… oh. Or maybe even saw Bridget with that author fellow?"

_Incredibly perceptive of him_, Mark thought. "Yes."

"Still. I know that regardless of what's happened, you still love each other. Just a matter of finding your way back to the path."

Mark couldn't stop the chuckle that bubbled forth. "How very Zen of you to say."

"I've known you both a _long_ time," he said. "And I know, despite my initial attempts to thwart you, that some things are meant to be. You and Bridge… you were. You _are_."

Mark looked down to his desk. "I'll do whatever I can," he said. "I'm just not sure there's anything that can be done."

"You're a clever man," said Daniel. "You'll think of something." He turned towards the door, the way out, a signal the conversation was over. "Well, I should go. Just wanted to talk to you alone before tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Your daughter's birthday party. Bridge asked me over. Hmm, as for a gift… I suppose she's too young for condoms yet?"

Mark laughed. "A bit. However, your godson…"

Daniel grinned. "Well, _well_! Do I have to have a talk with him about the birds and the bees?"

"Not necessary," he said, "and you would, no offence, be the last one with whom I'd shoulder that responsibility."

Daniel laughed too. "Probably wise. Well. See you tomorrow."

He walked Daniel to the door; not strictly necessary, he knew, but it gave him something automatic to do while he went over the conversation he'd just had with his friend and former romantic rival. He had a little hope, more than he'd allowed himself since this whole thing had begun; he had to wonder if Daniel had been privy to information, something Bridget had said or done in his proximity…

_Don't get your hopes up, Darcy_, he thought, wandering down to the kitchen, suddenly in the mood for something warm to drink and recalling that he still had some Horlicks in the house for Lizzie. His eyes were met with a curious sight: Aidan sat at the breakfast nook, hunched down over a mug of something that was sending up curls of steam. He raised his gaze as his father came closer, and there was such an odd expression on his face that for a moment Mark wondered if all of the good will hammered out between them over the last day had dissolved.

"Hey," said Mark. "Everything all right?"

Aidan blinked, then shook his head a little. "Yeah, fine. Just in a mood for a bit of, well, Lizzie's Horlicks."

Mark smiled, feeling relieved. "As was I. Suspect we'll need to just own up to the fact that we like it too, and just buy more."

Aidan chuckled. "Yeah." He sipped again. "By the way, was that… did I hear Uncle Daniel's voice?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," said Mark, putting on some milk to simmer; his son always used the microwave but Mark swore it tasted better if heated in a saucepan. "He came by to say hello." It sounded weak, but he really didn't want to get into the subject with Aidan regarding their conversation. "You'll get to see him tomorrow. He'll be at Lizzie's party."

"Oh good," Aidan said, then chuckled a little. "Suppose I'll have to warn Marilyn that he's a bit of an old letch."

Mark grinned. Daniel may have been an old letch but Mark knew even he had his boundaries, and sixteen-year-old girls went well beyond that limit. Within a few minutes the milk was warm enough to drink and he mixed himself his own mug, then sat himself next to his son. "How is she?"

"What?"

"Surely you've given her a call since you've been home."

Aidan laughed. "We had a quick text exchange. She's out with her parents for supper."

"Ah," said Mark. "I have to agree with your assessment, by the way. I thought she was very cute."

Aidan smiled.

"And she's bright?"

"Yeah," he said. "I think she's smarter than I am."

"I always thought the same of your mother," Mark said.

"You never really kept that much of a secret, Dad," quipped Aidan in return.

Something had definitely changed, Mark considered. He was seeing nothing of the rage, the anger, the frustration that had been so prevalent since their split, not even a flinch at the mention of his mother. Whatever that catalyst had been, Mark was grateful.

"Well, I look forward to meeting her," Mark said.

Aidan drained his mug. "I'm looking forward to it too." He rose. "Better go to bed soon. I think Mum's expecting us at ten."

"Ah," he said. "I'll set my alarm accordingly."

As he passed his father, Aidan placed his hand on his upper arm and squeezed it affectionately. "Night, Dad."

"Night, son."

Long after Aidan's footfalls on the staircase had stopped echoing in his ear, Mark sat there with his hands cradled around his mug, occasionally raising it to sip, and thinking about his situation as it stood. Despite facing his divorce being nearly final, he felt oddly optimistic.

Just before retiring to bed, he checked his mobile; there he found several missed calls from Portia and three voice mails left; he needed only to listen to one to know what she wanted.

"Mark, _hiiii_, it's me. Portia. Just wondering how things were going with your son… if you find yourself unexpectedly free, I'm free too. Let me know."

He sighed, deleting it and the other two without even listening, then sending a quick text to advise he was not free, even though technically he now was. He just did not want her over, possibly ever again. He did not want _her_. He wanted Bridget back.


	7. Chapter 7: Feels Like Old Times

**Change of Heart**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 5,447 (this chapter)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7: Feels Like Old Times<strong>

Although Aidan was like his mother in many ways, he was, if nothing else, usually prompt when they had an appointment to make, and this day was no different. At half-past nine, as Mark descended the staircase to the first floor with Lizzie's gift in hand, he saw that Aidan was sitting on the steps typing furiously with his thumbs into his mobile—texting Marilyn, undoubtedly—before concluding then getting to his feet. "All set?"

"Yup, was just telling Marilyn that we're heading out." Mark smirked; he'd been correct. They went to the car for the short drive over and as Mark engaged the engine, Aidan continued, "She's kind of nervous about meeting you."

"Nervous? Why?"

"She's heard of you," he said. "From some of your bigger cases, I think because of her parents. So it's sort of like she's meeting a celebrity."

He couldn't help laughing a little. "I'm as far from being a celebrity as one can get."

"She was kind of weird about meeting Mum too, but she got over it quickly, so don't worry."

Mark glanced to his son. "I'm not worried," he said.

Aidan smiled. "Good."

When they arrived, Aidan let them in with his key; despite having one of his own 'for emergencies', Mark didn't feel it was right to use it apart from an actual emergency. "Mum!" he shouted up the stairs. "We're here."

"What?" came the cry from upstairs. "Already? Augh! I haven't had a shower or anything—" She appeared at the top of the stairs with what she often referred to as 'mad hair', and still dressed in her pyjamas. His heart leapt to see her, reminding him instantly of happier times; he truly had not stopped loving her, not a bit. "I only just saw off the last of them, the girls I mean," she said sheepishly. "Stayed up a bit too late with them, having a fun time."

Mark couldn't stop the smile from spreading on his face, particularly as she reached her hand up to run her fingers through her hair and seemed shocked to realise she had not mad hair but multiple pony tails; surely this was the result of the girls playing with her hair the previous night. He heard Aidan laugh. "Fetching look for you, Mum."

"Oh, quiet," she said, her face flushing deep red. "You can be nice and make me some more coffee. Need it after feeding those girls breakfast."

"Yes, Mum."

"It's all right; I'll do it," said Mark.

"Thanks, Mark," she said, pulling elastics from her hair. "I'll be down after I run through the shower. Lizzie's just getting ready, too, I think."

"We'll meet you in the kitchen."

Without even being asked, Aidan began clearing up after the breakfast mess while Mark put together her coffee. He didn't say anything; he was too lost in his own reflections, how much he'd missed seeing Bridget dishevelled in the morning, a sight he regarded as among his favourite in the world. He started to think, to actively machinate how he might win Bridget back.

"Looks like an attempt was made at pancakes," said Aidan wryly as he wiped up the counter.

With that the scent of coffee wafted through the kitchen. Mark looked up, saw the drips of batter on the counter and on the floor. He chuckled. "She makes perfectly good pancakes," said Mark. "Oddly shaped and extra brown and crispy on the edges, but they're always delicious."

Aidan paused in what he was doing to look at his father. He grinned. "Yeah, true."

"Dad!"

There was a great thumping of footsteps as Lizzie emerged down the stairs and into the room, her long blonde hair still mostly wet. She was definitely not dressed for her party, but rather in trackie bottoms and a tee. She launched himself into his arms and gave him a hug.

"Happy birthday for real this time, darling," Mark murmured, holding her tightly to him. She was warm and smelled of fresh soap.

"Know I just saw you but… I'm glad to see you," she said.

Mark felt very emotional; it felt almost as normal as things used to be. "Always glad to see you." She drew back, beaming a smile. "Please tell me you're not wearing that for your birthday. Your mother will pitch a fit."

Lizzie erupted in giggles. "No, _Dad_," she said. "I'm waiting for her to be done so she can help me with my hair."

"What are you doing to your hair?"

"Braids, then putting it up," she said.

"Such a little princess," teased Aidan. She laughed, twirled in a circle and did a mock curtsey. "Have a good breakfast?"

"Mm, the best. Chocolate chip pancakes."

"And who was here?" Aidan asked.

"Well, there was Chrissy, Joann… oh, and Annie and—"

It was bittersweet hearing Lizzie's list; Mark couldn't picture in his mind any of the girls she named except for Jude's and Sharon's girls. "And you had a nice time?" Mark asked.

"The best," she said, then yawned.

"Stay up a little late?" teased Mark.

"Just a bit," she said. "But Mum stayed up with us."

"Fully sanctioned," said Aidan.

"Exactly!" said Lizzie.

Mark poured himself a cup of coffee, then took a long sip before helping Aidan with loading the dishwasher and generally tidying the kitchen up for the onslaught of lunch and guests. They had just gotten the kitchen cleaned, Mark had just poured a second cup of coffee for Bridget and fixed it to her liking, when he heard Bridget's voice getting louder upon her approach. She was wearing a pair of smart blue trousers and a white jumper, and held her mobile to her ear. Her hair was still a bit damp but she was otherwise made up. "Yes, just about to get lunch on. Yes, Mother. Yes, I know. No. See you when you get here." She pressed the button to disconnect the call, then met Mark's gaze.

Mark said with a smile, "Some things don't change."

"Never will," she said, smirking a little.

"Mum! What about my hair?" said Lizzie.

"Oh, right. We should do that upstairs and away from the food." She looked to Mark. "Do you mind putting the casseroles in and minding them? Lizzie wanted something Mexican-spiced, so… some kind of enchilada thing I found online. Hope it comes out all right. Had a hell of a time finding maize tortillas."

"I'm sure it'll be fine. Where are they?"

"Fridge," she said. "Pour the bottle of sauce between the two, gas mark four, check it after twenty minutes."

"Right."

"Thanks," she said. "Come on, Lizzie."

"Bridget?"

She turned to look at him again. "Yes?"

He pointed to the coffee cup. "For you."

She smiled. "Thanks." She picked it up, took a sip. "Perfect, as always."

_Some things don't change_, he echoed in his thoughts as he watched her walk up the stairs. _Never will._

Mark fired up the oven, then retrieved the casserole pans from the fridge, pulling back the foil to look at her creation: heaps of shredded, spiced chicken, cheddar cheese, and some beans amidst the tortillas. Also there in the fridge, on the top shelf, was a cake, white with pink writing: _Happy Birthday Lizzie!_

"Do you know where this sauce is she's talking about, Aidan?"

"Think it might be this."

He turned around and saw Aidan holding up a bottle of viscous dark reddish-brown liquid, Spanish writing on the label. "Yes. That sure does look like it."

Between the two Mark divided the contents of the bottle, popped them in the oven, then set the timer on the oven. "Well, that was easy enough."

He heard Aidan chuckle.

Within short order the smells of the casserole began to fill the kitchen. In the interest of expediting lunch he and Aidan laid out the table, pulled out drinking glasses, forks and serving utensils, set out bowls of crispy tortillas and salsa verde.

"To drink?"

"There's some lemon fizzy stuff in the fridge," he said. "And I think she found some Mexican beer for the adults."

He smiled with fondness.

Just then, Aidan reached into his pocket, looked to his mobile and jumped up from where he was sitting. "She's just about here," he said. "I'm going to meet her at the door." Mark concluded that Aidan had just gotten a text from Marilyn, which was proven correct when Aidan returned a few minutes later with the pretty young lady with whom he'd been that day.

"Dad," said Aidan. "This is Marilyn Smith." She looked up at Mark, smiling shyly; through her specs he could see she had light blue grey-eyes, the one feature at which he had not gotten a good look at the café. Her hair was smooth, combed down, not tousled artfully as he had seen that January morning. Presumably she had done so in an effort to impress him.

She held out her hand; she had silver rings on just about every finger, some delicate, some with small gems, some chunkier with Celtic knotwork. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Very nice to meet you, Marilyn," he said, taking her hand between both of his. "I've heard a lot of nice things about you."

Marilyn tinted pink. "Thank you, sir. I've heard so much about you too."

He smiled, releasing her hand; he couldn't help wondering if what she'd heard was from Aidan or from her parents talking. "'Sir' is a bit much," he said. "Why don't you just call me 'Mr Darcy'?"

She giggled, tucking her hair behind her ear in a manoeuvre that reminded him of Bridget. "All right. Thanks."

Just then Bridget came rushing in; she looked beautiful, her hair pinned up but in a casual way, tendrils drifting down, not polished and lacquered. "Oh, thank you, thank you so much—you didn't have to do the table and everything but I'm so grateful you did," she said, going straight for Mark and giving him a peck on the cheek and a hug, surprising him completely and utterly. He returned the hug, perhaps lingering closer to her longer than he should have, inhaling the scent of her perfume, closing his eyes briefly and savouring this unexpected gift.

"You're welcome, Bridget," he said at last, as it occurred to him that he ought to acknowledge her thanks, and drew back, noticing for a moment that Aidan was watching them with keen interest, with something very akin to sentimentality. "Your casserole smells delicious."

"We'll see if it is," she said, pulling the corner of her mouth down. She turned and saw Lizzie on the stairs. "There's the birthday girl, all decked out in her braids."

Her hair had been pulled to one side and done in two braids, which were then looped around one another then pinned up. Lizzie looked so much like her mother it took him aback; obviously Bridget had thought it all right to allow her a little mascara and blush for the occasion (he didn't object if she didn't), and with the pretty pale pink dress and shiny white flat shoes she looked simultaneously like his little baby girl and a lovely young woman.

Just then, he heard the bell at the front door; it was only now half-past eleven and the grandparents (and Daniel) were due to arrive soon. "Oh, I'll get it," said Lizzie excitedly. "It could be Sebastian."

Mark felt frozen in place; he worked hard not to let it show. For her part, Bridget looked equally stunned. Lizzie must have seen both of their reactions, because she added, "Sorry. I should have mentioned I asked him."

"It's all right," Mark said, then cleared his throat. "It's your party and you can ask whomever you like."

"Go on, Lizzie," said Bridget then turned apologetic eyes on Mark as Lizzie dashed up the stairs again.

"It's all right," Mark said again to her, his tone softer.

She smiled, then turned away to notice that Marilyn had arrived. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't even see you there!" She went over and gave Marilyn a quick hug.

"It's okay. You've been busy," Marilyn said. "You look really pretty, Bridget."

"Thank you, though I'm just pleased that the dark circles are adequately camouflaged, and I got all of the elastics out," Bridget said with a grin. "Spending the night with seven pre-teen girls is exhausting."

Mark realised at that moment, perhaps with foolish optimism, that she had not been expecting Sebastian at all… that perhaps she had done herself up for his own benefit. Just as quickly he dismissed it. Why would she?

"Bridget, I can't believe how grown-up Lizzie—Oh, hello."

It was Sebastian speaking as he came down the stairs, but breaking off when he saw Mark there. Sebastian bore a wrapped gift, small and of the shape and size of a DVD set, and he set it down on the counter and extended his hand towards Mark in greeting.

"Nice to see you again," Sebastian said, smiling what appeared to Mark to be a genuinely friendly smile.

"And you," said Mark, reminding himself to get one of the man's books from Aidan for reading; as he thought it he realised he was treating the man as he would treat any figure he was researching on for a case.

"Lizzie." Down the stairs came Daniel. "You really ought to be more careful about closing the door, darling."

"Hi, Uncle Daniel!" Lizzie went over and met him at the stairs, giving him a tight hug. "Did you bring me something from Australia?"

"Might have done," he said with a hint of collusion in his voice. "We'll see." Daniel looked around, and Mark saw the faintest raising of a brow as Daniel spied Sebastian. "Well, sir, I don't believe we've met. I'm Daniel Cleaver. Work with Bridge at the station."

Sebastian extended his hand and they shook. "Daniel, pleasure to meet you. I'm Sebastian Chamberlain. Bridget and I met on her show." As he said it, he slipped his arm around Bridget's shoulders. She didn't smile. In fact, she didn't look comfortable at all. Mark's thoughts raced as to the reasons why that might be.

"Yes, I've heard," Daniel said. "That you're one of Aidan's favourite authors, I mean. Used to be in publishing, actually. That's how I met Bridge once upon a time." He smiled. "I was her boss."

Mark hoped that Daniel wasn't going elaborate on their former relationship, and Mark was thankful, perhaps at Mark's stern look, that Daniel did not.

"How interesting," said Sebastian. "For which house?"

With that the two of them began a conversation on the publishing business as Daniel helped himself to a bottle of beer—Dos Equis, Mark noted—and offered one to Sebastian as well. Mark felt a hand on his upper arm, turned and saw it was Bridget. "I'm sorry," she said. "I really didn't know she'd asked him."

"I said it's all right," he reminded.

"I'd wanted to keep it family only."

As Daniel and Marilyn were also present, Mark tried not to read too much into it. "I could kick him out if you like," he joked.

She laughed. "No, it's fine," she said. "As long as you're fine."

He drew his brows together, wondering about this sudden concern. "I already said I am."

"Okay," she said, taking his hand and briefly squeezing it. "I just didn't want you to think I excluded Portia deliberately." As his mind reeled, the bell on the front door went off again. "Let me get that," she said; Lizzie was in deep conversation with Marilyn and hadn't heard. "It's probably my parents, or your mum. Or all three." They had at least remained friendly with one another. He nodded, and she stepped away.

Daniel called Mark over to join them, offering him a beer with a grin. Mark knew any buffering needed between himself and Sebastian was well in hand with Daniel on the case. He took a draw from his beer just as he heard Colin Jones' voice echo down the stairs.

"Where's the birthday girl?"

Lizzie turned and ran to greet her grandfather, giving him a big hug, then turning to Pam Jones and to Mark's own mother as well. Elaine Darcy seemed slightly taken aback at Mark's presence, or perhaps it was at the presence of Bridget's new boyfriend, with whom he must have seemed very chummy to her eyes. He waved hello, and to his relief they all smiled and waved in return.

"Hope you're all hungry," said Bridget, now that everyone expected had arrived. "We have lots of food."

The oven had been set to warm now that the casseroles were fully baked. Mark took her words as a cue to pull them out in a prelude to serving. He asked Aidan to get the sour cream from the fridge, and Aidan in turn advised there appeared to be a second bottle of sauce in the pantry. "I think it's for pouring over top."

"Well then," said Mark. "Get that to the table."

He felt a hand on his arm again, and without looking knew it was Bridget. "Thanks for tending that for me," she said, and when he turned to look at her it felt for a moment like old times, when they'd cook dinner together for the children.

"It was nothing," he said, then reached to switch off the oven. Behind him he could hear Sebastian talking, could hear that Pam and Elaine were obviously charmed by his stories. "This smells fantastic."

"Thanks."

"Hmm," he said. "Shall we do buffet style serving, or should these go to the table?"

"Bring them over to the table, I think," she said. "You can scoop out, if you like."

Whether it was subconscious or not, she was treating him like the head of the household. "I'd love to."

With oven gloves in place, he picked up one of the generous casserole pans and turned toward the table with it. He met Pam's eye first, smiled, then set it down on the hot pads that Bridget set down.

"That looks marvellous, darling; simply marvellous," said Pam.

"I hope it's good," Bridget said, "because I suspect there will be lots of leftovers."

"If it's good," Mark said, "you won't have any."

He heard a low rumble of laughter, looked around; apparently it had been decided between the parents that if Bridget was treating him as kindly as she was, they would too. In very short order he had served a good-sized portion to each of them with a dollop of sour cream on top. The tortillas were passed around the kitchen table—extra leaf clearly in place—as were the bowls of salsa verde, and as everyone got to eating, murmurs of approval went up all around.

Mark lifted his beer bottle, looked up and met Bridget's eye. "My compliments to the chef."

"Hear, hear," said Daniel. "Well done, Bridge."

A silence fell over the ten of them as they ate the enchilada dish; silence was good, thought Mark, as people who were happily eating were not talking. The children in particular were very fond of the crispy tortilla strips, dragging them through the salsa and crunching loudly on them. They drank down so much of the lemon soda he worried that there might not be enough.

A few minutes after everyone finished eating, as they sat back and exhaled in obvious satisfaction, sipping their respective beverages, Daniel piped up and declared it might just be time for presents; Bridget groaned audibly. "In a moment," she said. "Need a bit more time to digest." Nevertheless, they rose and headed en masse for the stairs, picking up the presents that had made it down. Insisting she do it herself, insisting her mother and Mark's spend time with Lizzie, Bridget began to clear the table. Mark immediately pitched in to help.

"You don't need to stay," she said. "I've got it."

"If I don't," said Mark, glancing up to an approaching Sebastian, "you'll likely miss the present-giving."

Sebastian took the casserole pan, one at a time, back to the kitchen counter. "I think there might be enough left for a small midnight snack," said Sebastian. "Well done." He opened a drawer and found a small plastic container in which to put the remaining serving.

"Thanks." Mark glanced over to see her smiling, obviously pleased with herself.

They stacked the dishes by the sink just as they heard Lizzie call down to them: "Mum! Dad! Come on—I have _presents_!"

Sebastian laughed. "She can be very vocal when there's something she wants, can't she?"

"Yes," said Mark and Bridget in unison, then exchanged a glance and a small laugh.

"She takes after you that way, Bridget," Mark went on.

She grinned. "Come on, let's go before we see how loud she can really get."

As they walked towards the stairs towards the upper floor, Mark watched as Sebastian placed his hand on her shoulder to walk with her to the stairs; it seemed clear to Mark to be something he was doing without conscious thought, but it made him feel a little melancholy.

"All right, all right, we're here now—get to tearing," said Bridget as she took a perch on the arm of the sofa on which Lizzie was sitting. Mark's mobile began to ring at that moment; he palmed it, saw it was Portia's number and quickly silenced the ringer before turning it off altogether. Frankly he was a little surprised she hadn't yet called that day.

"Who's that, Dad?" asked Aidan.

"Nothing. Work related," he said. "Not at all important."

Aidan's brow furrowed for a moment before he offered a smile.

From her maternal grandparents Lizzie had a card with a cheque inside, as well as a pale pink fuzzy muffler, hat and glove set. "I know the winter's almost over, but I couldn't resist when I saw the colour," said Pam Jones, smiling brightly.

"They're great, Gran," said Lizzie. "Thank you."

From Elaine was also a card and cheque, as well as a selection of hair decorations—barrettes, bands, elastics and so on. Lizzie squealed in her delight. "I thought it best to let you pick your own present," said Elaine, "but I couldn't not give you something to open."

"Love them, thank you!"

As she finished with a gift she handed it to her mother, who sat with a pen making notes on the card. He knew she was jotting down what Lizzie had been given by whom, to assist in writing the round of thank-you cards afterwards. It reminded him of when the children were little, when they had scores of presents for which they had to keep track on birthdays and Christmas.

Next was a package that Mark did not recognise—two, actually; one large and one smaller that were apparently taped together—for which she opened the card and beamed a smile at Daniel. "Thanks," she said.

"Open the big one first," he said.

The larger of the two, the size of a throw pillow and about as squishy, turned out to be a stuffed kangaroo. Lizzie let the paper fall to the ground as she held it to herself. "I love it!"

"The card," reminded Bridget.

"Yes, yes!" said Lizzie, handing her the card then setting down her new kangaroo and tearing into the other package. "Oh!" she said. It was a smallish box, and inside the box was two carved bone amulets, each hanging on a fine leather strap. "What are these?"

"Got them for you in New Zealand. Maori symbols. Read the paper in the box."

It turned out that the round one was called the Koru, a stylisation of a silver fern into a circular shape, which symbolised the beginning of life. "'And growth and harmony'," she added, reading from the slip.

"Well, you're growing," said Daniel, "and who doesn't need harmony?"

The other, a more human-like shape, was Hei Tiki, a figure with a grinning expression who was said to be a good luck charm.

"It says that these should only be worn by, and I quote, 'clear-thinking, perceptive, loyal and knowledgeable' people."

"I rest my case," said Daniel with a grin.

"I like them, but why two as well as the kangaroo?" asked Lizzie.

"Because you deserve both of them," he said. After a moment, he grinned. "Oh, all right. I couldn't decide."

This caused all and sundry to chuckle.

Next was what Mark recognised to be the gift Sebastian had come in with, and as she tore the paper away Mark could not help but chuckle. It was the deluxe edition of a recently done production of _Pride & Prejudice_, one which had captured the imagination of young ladies all over England—Lizzie's included—in much the same way that another similar production had done for her mother.

"Oh, thank you Sebastian," she said, clutching it to her chest; it amused Mark that she was walking that fine line between her childhood (the plush kangaroo) and oncoming teenage-hood (a celebrity crush in a film). Oddly enough, it brought to Mark's mind the ridiculous doll that Portia had given to her, completely inappropriate and embarrassing to his daughter. Sebastian, however… he had apparently gotten her exactly what she wanted. Lizzie really seemed to like him. Aidan did too.

Mark felt his earlier optimism deflate.

"Bah," said Bridget, prompting Mark to look to her. "_That_ Mr Darcy can't compare. He's rubbish." She winked at Mark; she must have known he'd be thinking of that other production.

"You're mad, Mum," said Lizzie, not relinquishing the box set. "Utterly!"

The others could not help chuckling.

"We'll just have to watch and compare, that's all," Bridget said. "Thank you Sebastian, for fostering such a good mother/daughter bond." Sebastian smiled, nodding, acknowledging he'd scored a hit.

Chosen next was a small box from Marilyn. As Lizzie tore away the paper, she opened the box and shrieked with delight. "It's just like yours!" she said, slipping the silver braided ring out and onto her middle finger. "Thank you! I love it!"

Marilyn grinned, but blushed all the same. "Happy birthday, Lizzer."

There were three gifts left. Lizzie reached for one but Bridget said, "No, leave that until last. Open your father's gift first."

Lizzie did as told and as expected she bounced in her seat when she saw that the box contained the newest model of e-reader available. "Colour screen and everything! I can't wait to get it all loaded up with books! Oh, thank you, Dad! This is such a great birthday!"

Mark was unable to keep the smile from his face. "You're welcome, my darling girl," he said, surprised at the emotion in his voice.

Lizzie looked at it longingly a moment more, then set it aside. "Now can I open this one?"

He saw Aidan and Bridget exchange a curious look, then Bridget grinned and nodded. "Go ahead."

In opening the penultimate present, Lizzie became visibly confused. "What is this?" She pulled the paper away fully, and even Mark could see it was an accessory set of some kind, a case, ear buds, and other small miscellany. "Aidan, this is for a phone I don't have."

Aidan said nothing, only smiled.

Lizzie, being the clever girl she is, shot a look at her mother, and said, "_No_. You didn't!"

Bridget didn't say anything, but she also couldn't keep from grinning.

"Oh my God!" Lizzie pounced upon the one remaining present and squealed as the pictures on the box were revealed to her. Mark saw that it was a smartphone, not the highest end he'd ever seen, but one he knew Lizzie had wanted, and one which he thought was too much for a young girl.

He shot a look to Bridget, his irritation undoubtedly evident on his face. Bridget in turn mouthed the word "sorry" then pointed to the hallway. "I'm glad you like it, sweetie," Bridget said, rising from where she'd sat, pecking a kiss on her head as she did. "Be right back."

Mark stood too and went with her.

"Please don't be angry," she said quietly. "She's twelve, she's smart, and I didn't think there was any good reason to not let her have a smartphone."

"Bridget," he said, feeling exasperated. "Yes, I do think she's too young for this particular phone, but that's not why I'm angry." He sighed. "I'm not even angry, really. I only wish that you'd talked with me about a purchase of this magnitude first."

"Sorry," she said. "It was just a really great deal and… sorry."

He looked down. "It's all right," he said at last; he felt as if he was saying it too much lately, or was it that he just didn't say it enough before? "I'm sure she will be very responsible with it."

"I really think she will," she said. "After all, she's so like you."

He looked to her, gave her a smile, wishing for all the world that circumstances had changed enough that he might take her in his arms, but her words only underscored for him his biggest failure regarding responsibility. "Thank you—"

"Mum, Dad, Lizzie's trying to get into the phone _right now_."

Mark turned as Bridget did, to see Aidan standing there looking concerned. "Well, I guess she wasn't told she couldn't," said Bridget. "Distract her with mention of cake, and I'll be right there." As Aidan left, she then turned to Mark. "If you wouldn't mind getting the cake out…"

"I can talk to her about the phone," he said.

"That mess is my doing," she said, "and I'll clean it up myself." The tone of her voice was the faintest bit defensive before she exhaled. "Sorry."

He shook his head. "It's all right. I'll be downstairs."

The table needed to be washed and after he did that he got the cake out. As he searched in the drawer for some matches, he heard voices descending the stairs. He realised it was Marilyn and Aidan.

"—as a woman I can sense these things, Aidan," she said, eliciting a chuckle from him. In return Mark heard the sound of a playful smack. "Don't laugh at me. I know I'm right."

"You usually are," he said. There was a bit of silence as the footfalls on the stairs silenced; he suspected Aidan was giving his girlfriend a stolen kiss, and he didn't want to embarrass his son, so Mark stayed perfectly still. "My dad really likes you."

"You're just saying that," she said in a half-whisper.

"I'm not," he said. After another pause, he said, "You're sure?"

"Totally," she said.

"And you think we should—"

Mark wished to afford his son privacy when needed, but he also did not want to overhear this particular conversation. He shut the drawer with more force than strictly necessary, which caused Aidan to stop talking at once. "Dammit," said Mark. "I know she has matches here somewhere."

"Dad?" said Aidan.

"Aidan, is that you?" he asked, feigning innocence. "Will you help me find the matches?"

Within a few minutes they located a click-wand candle lighter that Bridget had purchased for the occasion, apparently still sitting in the bag in which it had come home along with the birthday candles. No sooner had Aidan placed twelve candles around the periphery, had Mark retrieved a stack of dessert plates and forks, than the others began filing down to the kitchen with a murmur of amazed conversation.

"So that thing can do videos and emails, everything?" This from Pam Jones, holding it and looking at the screen in amazement. "You should be very careful, darling; very careful indeed."

"Don't worry, I will," said Lizzie in a sort of resigned voice that sounded so much like her mother Mark couldn't help smiling.

"And a book the size of a notepaper tablet, imagine!" she went on. Pam then met Mark's eye. "Mark," she said with pleasant civility. "You're looking well."

"Thank you," he said. "You are too."

"Time for cake," said Bridget. "Lizzie, take your seat, we'll come 'round you."

Bridget lit the candles then took a place behind her daughter as they switched off the lights and everyone sang to her. Lit from below with the glowing candlelight, Mark couldn't take his eyes off of the two of them, particularly couldn't take them off of Bridget.

As Lizzie blew out the candles, Bridget caught his eyes and gave him a smile. He knew in that moment he had to do whatever he could to win her back.


	8. Chapter 8: Blindsided

**Change of Heart**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 4,228 (this chapter)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8: Blindsided<strong>

"That was really fun."

Most of the luncheon guests had gone, Sebastian included, and after helping to tidy up the kitchen while Aidan and Marilyn helped to get Lizzie's phone fully set up, Mark was pleased to share a cup of tea with Bridget across the kitchen table, just like old times.

"It was," he said with a tender smile. "Thank you for having me."

"Of course I'd have you, Mark," she said. "She's your daughter and you belong here."

He looked down. "I'm not sure you would have said that a few months ago."

"That's not fair," she said quietly. "I've never done anything to keep you from—"

"You're right, and I'm sorry. It's not fair." He looked up and met her eyes.

"Apology accepted." She stirred her tea, kicking off her shoes and resting her stocking feet on the chair next to Mark. "I didn't get a chance before, but I wanted to ask about the lunch yesterday. Were Aidan and Lizzie on best behaviour as they claimed?"

"They were fine," he said; he didn't think their goofing around on Portia was worth mentioning. "Sorry about the doll she gave to Lizzie. I know it's awful."

"Ah, nothing to it. We had fun giving it a punk makeover during the sleepover." She laughed, then added on a more serious note, "And Aidan seems to… have warmed to you again."

"Yes. We seem to have come to some kind of détente."

"That really worried me, I have to admit." She smiled. "Glad to hear it."

He picked up his tea and took a long sip. "Speaking of Aidan… in fact, he confessed to me that he's thinking of having sex."

She coughed a little on her tea, then brought her hand to her mouth, blinking rapidly. "Blimey," she said.

"Well, he is coming up on seventeen; it's normal he's considering—"

"No, Mark," she said, then added with a laugh, surprising him, "I'm just a little shocked they haven't already! When I was his age—" She stopped short then began to chuckle, undoubtedly owing to his expression. "You don't have to look so scandalised."

He smiled too. "I really shouldn't be—I know everything about you, remember?"

She looked to her cup, then back to him with a wistful little smile. "Very true."

Hoping to turn the mood back he laughed a little. "Though Lizzie… well, she'll have to wait until she's forty or I'm dead before she can even _think_ about having sex." At this she erupted with a laugh; she knew he was teasing. Feeling suddenly emboldened, he went on: "Listen, what are you doing tonight? I mean," he added hastily, "you and the children?"

She drew her brows together. "Sebastian's coming back 'round to take me to supper. Aidan and Marilyn are taking Lizzie to the pictures. Why?"

He tried not to let his disappointment show… nor his jealousy. "Just thought if you were free we might all… well, you're not, and I suppose I should brush up for court tomorrow."

She reached out and placed her hand on his upper arm. "I didn't think we could ever get to this place, you and I, but I'm glad we can still be friends. Truly."

"As am I," he said, and he was, but sadness washed over him all the same. He looked into his cup and saw there was so little left it was probably cold by now. He then stood from the table. "Ought to go." She rose too. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. If he lingered too long she didn't say anything. "I'll talk to you soon."

"Okay," she said.

With they ascended the stairs together; Bridget called for the children to come and say goodbye. Mark gave Lizzie a long, tight hug—"Happy birthday again, my beautiful girl," he said to her—then spontaneously gave Aidan a hug too. "Let me know about that advice you needed," he said quietly.

He swore Aidan blushed crimson. "Right. Oh. And there's a copy of one of Sebastian's books on my nightstand."

Mark nodded. "Thanks."

He drove home, pondering the last twenty-four-plus hours, wondering if it would ever be possible for Bridget and him to regain the love and trust they'd had, worrying about the depth of feelings Bridget was evidently developing for Sebastian… and as he pulled in front of his house, those thoughts were interrupted by the presence of a familiar black car parked outside. As he emerged from his own vehicle, Portia rose to stand from hers with a smile.

"Mark, I came 'round to see if all was well," she said. "I wasn't able to get hold of you."

"As you see, all is just fine," he said.

"Was beginning to worry, since I didn't hear from you," she said solicitously, coming around to claim his elbow as they walked together to his door. "Did you have a good night with Aidan?"

He nodded. "And a good day today with Lizzie for the family party."

"Family party? What, over at your ex-wife's?"

"Yes," he said. "She was very pleased with her day."

As they stood in the foyer, after they each removed their respective overcoats, Portia ran her hand over his shoulder; so similar to Bridget's tender touch, yet so very different. She came around to face him. "Have the house to yourself, then?" she asked in a low voice, snaking her arm around his waist, then her fingers brushed down over his arse.

"I do," he said.

"I've missed you," she cooed, then lifted her chin in order to plant a kiss on his lips, then his throat. He closed his eyes, brought his arms up around her, placed his hands over her backside. "Oh," she said, evidently delighted. "I see you've missed me too."

She took his hand then led him up the stairs; he stopped her, though, before she could take him into the master suite.

"Mark," she said. "It's not a shrine, you know."

"I know," he said. "It's in need of tidying, and…" Truth be told he was not ready to have another woman in there, in the bed he'd shared with Bridget for so long. He was not sure he ever would. "…the condoms aren't in there."

She laughed throatily, approaching him, running her fingers down over the front of his trousers. "Well, I suppose you have a point."

He leaned down and kissed her. "It doesn't really matter," he said, breathing hotly into her ear, even though it did matter to him. When he closed his eyes, with judicious use of imagination, he could pretend she wasn't Portia at all.

…

Mark awoke from the slumber into which he'd drifted by an abrupt snoring sound; as Portia slept, Mark slipped back into the clothing he'd shed during their tryst and went to Aidan's room, thinking he could pass a little time reading and getting a little insight into the man who had captured Bridget's affection.

It was apparently a work of fiction, a speculation that postulated and extrapolated what the future might be like if the world continued on the course on which it was currently headed, very well crafted but peppered heavily (judging by the first two chapters alone) with what was obviously Sebastian's liberally biased opinion; the man had no great love of political conservatives, the Tory Party in particular, and, as expected, portrayed them not merely as the opposition but as an active enemy. One passage in particular nearly had him laughing aloud in its generalities; the main character rails on the conservatives—i.e. the Tories in code—for being such unrepentant hypocrites, touting family values while at the same time being more likely to be caught engaging in the same behaviour they championed against so vocally, with extramarital affairs at the top of the list—

At this Mark suddenly looked up from the page, around at his son's currently empty room, and felt acutely hollow inside. Could this be a reflection of how Bridget, how his son, thought of him: as a hypocrite? He looked to the book again, feeling slightly uneasy at the thought of reading more; to be fair, however, he decided to place a marker on the page on which he'd left off, and carried the book back to the room.

As he came in, Portia turned over and woke, smiling sleepily at him. "Hey," she said, her voice scratchy. "Where were you?"

"Had to get a book from Aidan's room." He set it down on the bureau, spine facing away from her. He saw the time was nearly seven. "Didn't mean to put off dinner so long. Shall we get takeaway?"

"No, let's go out. It's not too late to get seated." She pushed the sheets back. He turned away, not wanting to be reminded of her thinness. "Give me a moment, I'll freshen up."

They went and had their supper; it was hardly important where they went or whether he wanted to be there because Portia was in her element as the escort of one of the most prominent legal figures in town. It wasn't as if she didn't have feelings for Mark; he was sure that she did, even if those feelings weren't exactly what he'd define as love. He cared about her too in his way, did not want to hurt her; he hated to think that he might have to eventually.

…

"Sebastian Chamberlain? Why are you reading that pinko claptrap?"

This from one of the partners in chambers, Horatio, as Mark sat with the book open as he ate lunch at his desk. He and a few others were passing by.

"His ex-wife's seeing that fellow," commented Jeremy, not very helpfully.

"He's supposed to be very good," said Giles. "Winner of some sort of literary prize."

"Two, actually," said Mark. "It's a good read. Unbelievably biased, but well written."

Horatio mumbled, "Well, I suppose if you weren't persuaded by all those years with that ex of yours, one book surely isn't going to change things." Obviously pleased by what he thought was a snappy rejoinder, he snorted then walked away.

"I've wanted to read that. Care if I borrow it when you're done?" Giles asked.

"It's my son's. I'll ask."

"Right, thanks."

Mark began to read again when he sensed a figure approaching. "Hey, Mark." He looked up; it was Jeremy. "Have a question for you."

"Yes?"

Jeremy seemed unaccountably nervous. "Magda and I are throwing this sort-of… party thing at the cottage, and, well, you and Portia are de facto invited as partners, but Magda wants… well, she wants to invite Bridget, of course." He cleared his throat. "Is that okay with you?"

"Of course it's okay," he said, closing the book and setting it aside. "When is it?"

"Next month. For spring equinox."

He made a note in his diary.

"Kids?"

"No kids." Jeremy paused. "She wants all of them, you know."

"Pardon?"

"Sharon, Jude, Tom."

"That's fine," he said. "Maybe they can finally see that Bridget and I are getting on well, and we can find our own friendship again."

Jeremy cocked an eyebrow. "I suppose," he said. "Well, great, terrific. I'll let Magda know."

Mark was able to finish the book by the end of his break. It really was well written even if he didn't fully agree with the premise; it was the mark of a good book that kept one thinking long after the cover was closed. He did want to discuss it with his son, see what Aidan had gotten out of it; he did feel as if he understood its author a bit more, and by extension, why Bridget had found Sebastian so appealing after being married so long to someone who leaned more conservatively.

…

It was later that February that Aidan asked if he could stay with Mark on a night usually reserved for staying with his mother. "Of course," Mark said, surprised but pleased. When Aidan further enquired if they could just meet at the pub for supper first, he had a suspicion about what his son might have wanted to discuss.

"What's that?" Mark asked upon meeting his son at the door of the pub, indicating a pendant he was wearing, vaguely shaped like a reverse J.

Aidan looked down. "Oh, that. Uncle Daniel brought that back for me from New Zealand. It's a Maori fish hook. Symbolises strength, prosperity, determination, good health, and so on."

"And so on," Mark repeated with a chuckle. "Come on, let's order. I'm famished."

They found a seat and Mark ordered himself a pint of bitter, and his son a cider as before. "What's Marilyn doing this evening?" Mark asked.

"Probably reading," he said. "She's got an English Lit project due on Monday."

"And you don't?"

"We're not in the same grade, Dad," he said, sipping the cider. "She's a year ahead of me."

"An older woman?" Mark said with a smile.

"Only by about half a year in actuality." Aidan turned a little serious. "Dad, I'll be seventeen next month."

"I am fully aware of this, believe me," said Mark.

"I know we're in a city with an amazing public transport system," Aidan went on. "But I'd still… like to drive. Maybe have a car of my own."

Of the possible conversations he was expecting, this wasn't one of them. "Oh?"

He nodded. "Mum asked me to talk to you."

"And what did she say about the subject?"

"That it would depend on what you had to say."

"I'll have to give it some thought," Mark said. "Driving is a big responsibility, and owning a vehicle is quite an expense."

"I know."

He sipped at his beer, as their food arrived. "I'll think about it."

Aidan grinned. "All I'm asking."

Conversation moved towards school, Sebastian's book, what Aidan might want to do for his birthday, and other minor topics unrelated to Marilyn; Mark was curious how things were progressing for him on that front (since Aidan had brought it up in the first place) but he didn't want to be too nosy or overbearing, so he assumed that all was going well and if his son needed advice he'd ask for it.

As they walked back to the house Aidan stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Thanks, Dad," he said.

"For supper? My pleasure."

"Not just for that." Aidan looked over to Mark just as Mark looked over to him. "For not asking."

Mark chuckled, given his prior thoughts. "I'm here if you need me."

"I know." After a beat, he added, "I appreciate it."

Upon arrival to the house, Aidan excused himself for his room to check in to see how the English Lit project was going, and to do some homework of his own. Mark noticed, as he went into the kitchen to make some tea, that the answerphone light was blinking. Curious, he pushed to listen; most people reached him directly on his mobile.

"Hello, this is Alice…. It's been a while since we spoke but I just wanted to thank you again for spurring us to get the ball rolling. Give me a call and I'll bring you up to date." The woman rattled off a number in town, said thanks and disconnected.

Mark rewound and jotted the number down, though his confusion was great. Was this a client, past or future? He could not conjure the memory to indicate to what this might be related. He rang the number back as he cleared his throat.

"Remington residence, Alice speaking."

"Yes, hello," said Mark. "This is Mark Darcy. I've just come home to a message from you and—"

"Oh, Mr Darcy," said Alice in a great rush. "We are ever so grateful for your call."

His confusion was not lessened. "I am not sure I understand."

"Well, not _this_ call," she explained. "The first one. From your wife. I just wanted to fill you in, now that I can, with what's happened."

Mark had no earthly idea what she meant, and realised in that moment that the message must have been intended for Bridget; since hardly no one reached him via the land line, he had never thought to change the outgoing answerphone message from Bridget's voice. However, continued curiosity got the better of him, so rather than give her Bridget's number, he encouraged, "By all means, fill me in."

"It's been a few months—since November at least, I think—but bringing that to our attention was the best thing your wife could have done. We confronted our son immediately and though initially he denied it, he finally admitted it was true. Pulled him out of Eton straightaway."

Mark felt a cold stab in his gut. "Your son."

"Yes, Arthur. He was an acquaintance of your son, Aidan."

"So…" Mark went on. "It was true that—"

"He was being bullied most fiercely, yes, sir!" she said, her dander clearly up. "And the high-ups at Eton were protecting that horrible Hawthorne child. But now it's all going to come out, particularly as other parents have come forward… and that bully Ethan will get his due. Not even his father can save him now—and in fact his father's likely to be pulled down into the morass." She snorted. "Couldn't have happened to a nicer fellow," she added with sarcasm. "And if your son hadn't stood up for him, your wife never would have called us, and we'd never have known, the way they pull ranks up around one another there." After a pause, Alice asked, "So is Bridget there?"

Mark's thoughts were in a whirl, trying to piece together what exactly must have happened; she must have rung up Arthur's parents after he'd gone, must have alerted them to the fight that had led to Aidan's expulsion… the bullying hadn't been an exaggeration, and he felt the world's biggest fool. "Um, no, I'm sorry," he managed at last. "She isn't. I'll be sure to relay this all to her."

"Thank you so much," Alice said. "Though I'm a little surprised she isn't doing this on her show."

"She likely can't remain objective about it," he said, his voice sounding automatic and flat to his own ears. "Thanks for calling, Alice. My best to your family."

"Thank you, Mr Darcy," she said. "And my best to yours. Arthur sure does miss Aidan; maybe now they're both in school in London they'll see each other sometime."

As he set the phone down, Mark sank to sit on one of the stools at the breakfast nook, cradling his head in his hand. He felt sick to his stomach. He felt in shock.

"—to Marilyn and everything's going all right, I guess—Dad? Are you all right?"

Mark did not hear Aidan's footsteps on the stairs, and didn't really register his presence until the tone of his voice changed upon laying eyes on his father. He felt his son's hand on his shoulder, and Mark turned around to face Aidan, rising to his feet and, without preamble, took his son in his arms and held him close to him.

Aidan returned the hug, silent for many moments, before Mark spoke, his voice uncharacteristically wavering: "I am so, so sorry."

"Dad," Aidan said, concern evident in his voice. "Who died?"

"For everything," Mark went on. "For doubting you, for fighting with your mother…"

"Dad," Aidan said again, drawing back. "What is this about?"

Mark sat down on the stool again, to steady himself more than anything. "I've just been talking to your friend Arthur's mother," he said. "Why didn't you tell me your mother called the Remingtons that night?"

Aidan looked so stunned that Mark knew instantly Aidan had no knowledge of such a call. "She what?"

Mark ran his hand over his face. "God, I've ruined everything… for nothing."

Aidan had his hand on Mark's upper arm again reassuringly.

"I should not have doubted you, shouldn't have doubted your mother, who knew you far better than I did, and I have no one to blame but myself for that, for any of it." He looked up then proceeded to brief Aidan on the phone conversation he'd just had, that Arthur had confessed the bullying to his parents, how his parents had rounded up support and were now planning on forcing Eton's hand to take action on Ethan Hawthorne. For his part, Aidan looked surprised.

"So your mother doesn't know anything about this?" Mark asked. "She's not planning a story on her show?"

Aidan shook his head. "If she is it's the biggest secret she's ever kept."

Mark had to chuckle at this, even as the shock continued to subside. He stood again, looking to the telephone. "I should call your mother," Mark said quietly. "This is not the sort of thing I could keep from her."

"Yeah," he said. "I'll go."

Mark nodded; he knew it was for the best that he be alone for this conversation.

The phone rang so many times he thought for sure it would go to voice mail, but at last she answered, "Yes, hello? Aidan, is that you?" She seemed breathless and giggly, and in the background he heard Sebastian's voice asking if everything was all right.

He felt himself tense over. "Actually, Bridget, it's me. I have a message for you from the answerphone. Someone called Alice rang up. I expect you have the number."

He could still hear her catching her breath. "I do, Mark, thanks," she said.

"Well. Goodnight."

He hung up, then hated himself for doing it.

…

When Mark next spoke with Bridget—he called her to discuss the automobile dilemma for Aidan's birthday—she was cooler than she had been towards him.

"I haven't thought about it any further," she said crisply.

"I didn't want to do anything without your input, but it is coming up fast," he said. "I mean, I'm happy to buy him a car—"

"I only asked to get your approval on the idea, not for you to buy it outright."

"I'm not suggesting you can't do so," he said.

"I don't want him motoring around in something brand new, ripe for stealing and—not to disparage his driving skills—likely to get dinged up."

With a frustrated exhalation, he asked, "Why don't we find something suitable—something new because I don't want him inheriting someone else's problems, but safe and low profile—and we can discuss splitting the cost?"

She seemed amenable to that: "I'll think about it."

"Don't think too long. His birthday's—"

"I know when his birthday is, Mark; I was there," she said, then sighed. "Sorry. I'll look and see what I can find; if you want to as well then we can compare notes."

"All right. Maybe we can meet for lunch on Friday." He hadn't forgotten his desire to apologise—had, quite truthfully, been obsessing about how to phrase it—but did not want to do so over the telephone. He wanted eye contact, wanted to read her body language. "There's something I'd really like to talk with you about, anyway."

There was a beat before she answered: "I suppose."

In the end she sent via email a list of vehicles she found acceptable rather than actually meeting him for lunch, thwarting his chance to apologise. Of those on the list, he agreed with three of them, and of the three, only one really seemed suited to Aidan's tastes. He rang her up, intent on arranging lunch or dinner to settle the matter and finally give his apology regarding Aidan's expulsion.

"I can arrange to get the car inspected and pay up front, just to expedite things," he said. "You can just pay me directly."

"Fine, whatever."

"Sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?" Mark asked, just as he felt fingernails graze along his shoulders; Portia, joining him at the table, seemed to like to hover over his conversations with Bridget.

"It's fine," Bridget said.

"Is something wrong?" he pressed. Portia continued to run her nails over his back. He wished she would stop; he pulled away from her.

"_No_," she said. After a pause, she added, "See you at Magda's. Bye."

"Bye."

He disconnected the call, feeling completely shut out; he turned his head to where Portia sat beside him and met her eye. "Everything all right?" she asked with great concern in her voice. "Doesn't like the one you picked?"

"No, not that. She seems a bit out of sorts," said Mark.

Portia smiled. "Bet I can guess why, same reason I've been grumpy lately," she said. "Bloody bureaucratic cogs holding up your divorce from being finalised." He glanced down to his plate and felt suddenly sad at the thought that Bridget might actually be looking forward to the divorce being final. He felt her hand cover his where it rested over his mobile on the table and heard her say, "I'm only teasing, Mark. I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry."

He looked to her, to the soft smile on her face, and offered one in return. At least she wasn't expecting him to go from one marriage into another. As for Bridget, he could just take her aside at Magda's and get everything as sorted out as soon as possible.


	9. Chapter 9: Country Respite, City Chaos

**Change of Heart**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 5,344 (this chapter)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.<span>: See Chapter 1.  
><span>N.B.<span>: I leave in the morning and will be traveling all day (2 Jul), so I don't know if I'll be able to get Chapter 10 up tomorrow.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9: Country Respite, City Chaos<strong>

The sleek silver sedan wound its way north towards Hertfordshire, its destination an unassuming but sizable country house surrounded by meadows and trees. Mark knew this because he had, on past occasion, had opportunity to spend time at this house with Bridget. He knew she'd be there, and he'd told Portia too; for her part Portia had promised to be friendly and would try to get to know Bridget better.

"After all," Mark had told her, "she's the mother of my children and she will remain in my life."

When they arrived they were greeted warmly by Magda and Jeremy, with requisite handshakes and air-kisses. "We've put you on the top floor on that side of the house," said Magda quietly to Mark. "You know, to keep awkwardness down."

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness," said Mark, "but that wasn't really—"

Mark stopped because at that moment Bridget came into the foyer behind Portia, who turned at the sound of Bridget's welcoming greeting. She had clearly just come in from outside, sunglasses in hand; it was an unusually warm day and they'd even made the drive with the windows down. It wasn't really Bridget who had brought him up short, however. It was the man accompanying her, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head.

Why Mark hadn't considered she'd be bringing Sebastian he did not know, and he felt incredibly stupid for not having thought of it. Mark's mouth pulled into a genial smile as he extended his hand. "Sebastian," he said as they shook. "Nice to see you again."

"And you, Mark." He smiled.

"Sebastian," said Bridget, turning her gaze towards Portia. "This is Portia Fawkes. You know Portia, _darling_; she's a top barrister, works with Jeremy… oh, and Mark too, of course."

"Yes, of course, a pleasure," said Sebastian, hiding a smile, as Mark silently fumed; she was deliberately channelling her mother's most grating demeanour and tone, and Sebastian clearly knew it. "I'm Sebastian Chamberlain."

"You might have heard of him," said Mark. "He's an author, very popular these days."

"Thank you for saying so," said Sebastian. "Aidan tells me you've been working your way through my library. I'm flattered. I know you're a busy man and that you don't have a lot of time for reading that isn't work-related."

It was hard to hear Sebastian's words as anything but condescending. "I've found it quite interesting, indeed," he said. Mark's gaze shifted towards Bridget; she seemed all too amused. "Are the children with your parents?"

"Aidan's watching the place," said Bridget, further raising his temper; she had not consulted him on the matter at all. "He's nearly seventeen."

"I'm aware," Mark replied, then added, referring to their previous conversation, "I was there, too."

"Oh? Where?" popped in Portia, utterly oblivious. At this, Sebastian let out a laugh that he tried hard to hide, unsuccessfully masquerading it as a cough. The laughter itself irritated Mark even more; he hated to admit it, but it rankled his ego to think Sebastian thought he, Mark, had chosen to leave his wife for an idiot.

"Come on," said Magda, who Mark had forgotten was even there, and who sounded distinctly uneasy with the direction the conversation had taken. "I'll take you upstairs."

They followed her to the stairs and up them; passing by two pairs of doors, Magda brought them to the room at the end of the hall. "Here you are," she said with tremulous brightness. "Toilet's just there to your other side. When you're settled come down for something to eat." With that Magda scurried away, closing the door behind herself.

"Oh, I feel daft," said Portia as he carried the bags in, setting them on the bureau. "You meant you were there when Aidan was born."

"Yes," he said as he pulled his trousers out for the next day, then his shirt, in order to hang in the closet to be presentable the next day. His instinct was to stay in the room and away from people, but his instinct was usually to do that, so he turned back to her. "Ready for something to eat?"

Portia looked a bit reluctant. "Well, I suppose… I mean, if you are," she said.

"Absolutely," he said.

"Do I need to freshen up?" she asked.

"You look fine," he said; he realised his tone probably seemed a bit too curt, so he followed up with a smile, saying, "Really."

She came up close to him, taking his hands in her own. "I know it's probably going to be a little strange for you, your ex-wife here with her new beau," she said, squeezing gently, "but it's for the best in the end."

He knew she was right, and nodded. He had to get used to the new reality, even as part of him was ever on the alert for an opportunity to win her back; he knew in his heart of hearts it was a fantasy.

"Marvellous." She released his hands, offered him a toothy smile. "Now I am positive Magda has some _fabulous_ nosh and _excellent_ vintage. Let's go mingle and everything will be wonderful."

He smiled; he hoped she was right. "All right."

They stood there for a moment before she brought her lips to his for a quick kiss. "I mean it."

He felt heat rise to his skin quite against his will. "I know."

They went back to the first floor, directly to the sitting room, where a sideboard table was laid out with all manner of appetisers; Magda, looking quite recovered, came up to Mark with a glass of red wine. "And you Portia," said Magda. "Wasn't sure if you fancied red or white more."

"White, thanks," she said. "What a lovely place you have here…"

As they talked, Mark took his glass in hand an surveyed the room; there were a handful of other people milling around the table and sampling the food from the spread. The table sat in front of a large picture window with a stunning view of the country, bright blue sky and verdant greenery separated by a low stone wall.

As his eyes adjusted to the brightness outside, he realised that there were two figures walking along the wall in the distance; in very short order they stopped, embraced, and began to kiss; the taller figure, the man, leaned his partner back against the waist-high wall—

Within a heartbeat Mark realised who those figures were, and quickly looked away, looked to the other guests in the room, none of whom were gazing through that same window. He could not bear to look any longer at Sebastian and Bridget.

"As expected, simply wonderful."

Portia was suddenly at his side, and he turned to face her. "Yes. One can always depend on Magda to push out the boat on her parties," he said, offering a smile, then pointed to the tray. "You're fond of those little quiche tartlets, aren't you?"

"Too right," she said, "though I can't have too many of them or I'll bloat up like a balloon." With a little laugh she ran her hand over her flat stomach.

They each put a selection of treats onto small plates then began to circulate about the room; the people present were by and large known to him, so he didn't really have any of his usual reticence when it came to conversation, helped by his glass of wine.

A commotion in the foyer caught his attention; rather, a familiar voice: "Fuck _me_, I could use something strong to drink after that drive."

Sharon, whom he had not seen since before the split.

This was followed up by a raucous laugh—Bridget's, he'd know it anywhere—and at that moment he suspected that Bridget and Sebastian had returned through the front door and had brought the newly arrived Sharon with them.

_And Jude,_ noted Mark, as the four of them came into the room; Magda rushed to greet them (Mark had yet to see Jeremy, had no idea where he was), giving effusive hugs to Sharon, who spotted Mark almost immediately, then Jude, who was apparently without her husband Richard for this weekend.

"Ah," said Sharon as she approached, leaving Bridget and Sebastian in her wake; Jude was quick to follow; Magda skittered off to get her some wine. "This must be… Portia." Mark knew better than to think the sweet tone was sincere. Portia did not.

"Yes, I am, but you have me at a disadvantage," she said, extending her hand. "You are…?"

"Very good friends of his ex-wife's," Sharon said, not accepting the shake; Portia withdrew it, trying to pretend she hadn't just been snubbed.

"This is Jude, this is Sharon," Mark explained. "It's nice to see you."

Sharon cocked an eyebrow. "I'd say the same," she said, "but I don't like to lie."

"Shaz!" Bridget said sharply yet coolly as one might calm a dangerous lunatic, coming up behind her friends. "Come and let's get some food—clearly you need that drink too."

As Bridget led her away by the elbow to meet an approaching Magda, Sharon's resulting expression reminded him of a muzzled attack dog. Jude, who had yet to say anything to Mark or Portia, remained with them. When she did speak, she was surprisingly friendly.

"So you're a barrister too?" Jude asked, directed at Portia.

"Yes I am," Portia said, offering a smile. "A focus on international law, which is why I get to work with Mark so frequently. What do you do, Jude?"

"Investment banking," Jude replied. "Brightlings."

"Oh, that must be _exciting_!" Portia said in a tone that indicated Jude was instead in fact perhaps a bounty hunter. "What does that entail?"

As Jude described her work, Mark tuned the conversation out; it was something he was not proud of, but when he saw Bridget speaking with Sharon his attention was naturally drawn to it. They were speaking in hushed tones as they perused the food table, but he was still close enough to hear their words.

"Sharon, I'm beyond it. Really," said Bridget. "There's no reason to be rude or angry with her."

"I have my doubts," she said through clenched teeth, "but if you say so, I'll back off. Mark, however… I could bollock him."

After a moment's pause, Bridget responded, "I really don't care anymore, Shaz. What's happened has happened—"

Just then Portia laughed, demanding his attention with the sound of his name.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Tell Jude about that awful time we had at dinner," she said with a smile. "You know, with the waiter who kept spilling things on us."

With a half-hearted smile he recounted the whole thing; they had both found the experience unpardonable and did not understand why Portia had brought it up.

"Oh, how awful!" said Jude. "Though the poor boy might just have been having a bad night."

"That's what I suspect," she said. "Certainly not going to hold it against the restaurant for all time."

This confused him, because Mark distinctly recalled her declaring that they would never eat there again.

Through the rest of the pre-dinner appetiser grazing, it took a concerted effort for Mark to pay attention to his own conversations when he was far more interested in Bridget and Sebastian's interactions with the other partners and other colleagues. With the exception of Jeremy (who'd finally turned up, greeting both Bridget and Sebastian with equal fondness), they were treating her with a sort of uneasy deference (due to their past acquaintances, it was difficult to avoid interaction), and who treated Sebastian as a zoo specimen. In interactions with Horatio and Camilla, to Mark it was obvious that Sebastian, while handling with cool aplomb, disliked this treatment intensely.

As the sky outside begin to dim with the approaching sunset, Magda advised dinner would be served at about seven. This seemed to prompt the group to leave the sitting room; some (like Sebastian and Bridget) were heading outside for fresh air, while some went upstairs or to the rear of the house presumably for their rooms. Portia suggested they do the latter. "I could use a bit of freshening up," she said.

The moment they were back in their room, Portia ran her hand over Mark's shoulder, ran her fingers over his cheek. "Perhaps what we really need," she said, "is a bit of a lie down." She reached up and moved to kiss him, but he pulled back. "Mark," she said, pouting a little. "You aren't going to let the fact that _she's_ here—"

"No," he said curtly, then offered a feeble smile. "Sorry. I'm just not in the mood."

She smirked. "Are you sure?" she asked, coming up close to him, running her hand over his arse, then around to the front of his thigh. "Sure you can't be persuaded?"

"Portia," he said quietly; he didn't trust his voice, particularly as her fingers were moving closer to his fly. When she kissed him, he responded in kind and allowed himself to be persuaded after all, particularly as they had not slept together in a couple of weeks. In a way the release was just what he needed in that moment, but after the fact he felt worse than ever. Despite knowing that after dinner Bridget would be retiring to the room she was sharing with Sebastian, would probably be sleeping with him under this very roof, he felt guilty.

"Hey, wake up. Probably ought to get ready," came her voice from beside him. He hadn't really been dozing, but he didn't disabuse her of the notion.

"Yes," he said softly. "You're probably right."

Dinner was a spectacular affair; he wasn't sure how much food Magda thought twelve guests could eat, but apparently she'd guessed correctly, as they all partook of the offerings, dishes from various regions of India, with great relish. "I feel like I've done nothing but eat since I got here," he overheard Bridget say, which made him smile as he sipped more wine.

Post-dinner there was coffee and dessert, which some took with them out through the dining room's French doors and onto the back patio. It was now dark, but the clouds that had rolled in were holding in the warmth of the day, and so it was perfectly comfortable for those doors to stand open.

Out on the patio Mark saw, like a scene from twenty years prior, Sharon, Jude and Bridget, wine glasses in hand and talking animatedly with one another. Sebastian came up out of nowhere and joined in, engaging Sharon and Jude, who clearly liked him. It was only then that a familiar motion, bringing a lit cigarette up past shoulder level, registered with Mark for what it was. It surprised Mark to see Sebastian taking a long draw on a cigarette; even more surprising was Bridget leaning into him to steal away the lit cigarette from his fingers in a surprisingly intimate gesture, taking a drag herself, then exhaling the smoke with obvious pleasure.

Mark could not believe what he was seeing, and in an instant he was irrationally furious. For her to have gone so long—since her first pregnancy—without smoking only to pick it up again as casually as a Sunday paper was to suggest some kind of rebellion, Sebastian's continued bad influence, or a little bit of both.

Bridget then saw him looking at her, and she took another puff before offering Mark an impish, almost defiant smile. He strode towards their little group, not knowing or caring much where Portia had gone.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Mark asked gruffly.

She looked at him as if he were mad, staring pointedly at the cigarette. "As you see," she said. "Rather obvious, I should think."

"Why would you start again, Bridget?"

"I think she can bloody well do what she wants," piped in Sharon.

"Yes," said Bridget, nodding towards her friend. "That."

"It's foolish and irresponsible and you—" he began.

"A lot of things are foolish and irresponsible to do," she retorted, "yet _some_ are compelled to do them anyway." She brought up the cigarette again, drew in a breath, then blew smoke in Mark's face, causing Sharon to chuckle, and Jude to hide a smile behind her hand.

"I'm glad you find Bridget risking her health so damned funny," Mark said to them, further angered by his humiliation and stinging eyes, before looking to Sebastian. "I'm appalled that you'd encourage her to start again," Mark said.

"I encouraged nothing," Sebastian said languorously, regarding Mark with scrutiny as he reclaimed the cigarette for a drag. "I happen to smoke occasionally, she asked for one, I obliged. She can make her own decisions. She's a grown woman."

"But she's not —" Mark began hotly, then faltered—he couldn't very well say she's not just a 'grown woman' but someone he still loved, not when he was here with another woman—and ended weakly with, "She's my—" He stopped again; to say she was his wife was even more of a mistake. Brows rose as he stumbled through his retort. Mark felt his jaw tense, hated his self-made embarrassment; he turned his piercing gaze to Bridget again. "I still think you've made an enormous mistake," he said.

"Well," said Bridget icily, "I wouldn't be the first one to have done that, now would I? And in case you haven't noticed, I'm not 'your' anything anymore."

Mark heard his name being called; it was Portia's voice.

"Run along now like a good puppy," said Sharon.

Mark knew she was likely plastered, knew she was still harbouring anger towards him, so rather than spar with her he simply turned and left the group. He found Portia just inside the dining room; it seemed she hadn't seen or heard the exchange. "I got you a coffee," she said brightly. He looked into the cup; his coffee had cream in it. He sighed and accepted it with a thanks.

"Well! Now the party can _really_ start!"

Mark spun around to see the one person he didn't realise until that moment was not present: Tom, accompanied by a young man Mark could only assume was his latest boyfriend. Bridget ran up to him and gave him a big hug. "Tell us the truth," she said with a mock air of confidentiality as she pulled back, glancing towards the dark-haired man. "You just needed a room."

When they all began to chuckle, Mark was struck more than ever how like old times it was. When Tom looked towards him, Mark smiled and nodded. Tom's expression in return was neutral at best before he bent to say something to Bridget. Whatever it was, it caused her to look at him; Mark thought her response was "It's all right," if his ability to read her lips from a distance was anything approaching accurate.

Then Portia said his name; Mark was pulled into a conversation with Horatio and Camilla, and when he next looked over to where the group of them had been, they had gone. He looked down to his tepid, too-pale coffee and sighed. _This is my life now, I guess._

…

The chirping sound of an incoming text message woke Mark far too early the following morning. Blinking, he sat up and fumbled for his mobile to silence it. He then read the message, which served only to perplex him.

_Headlines today somewhat explosive. Think you might recognise some names, tho they had sense not to name most important one… ~d_

It was from Daniel, but to what it was referring, Mark had no idea.

In the dark he rose, dressed in his robe, grabbed his shaving kit and left the room hoping that the toilet was free; it was. He closed and locked the door, then took a long, hot shower, probably longer than strictly necessary, but he doubted anyone else was yet awake. He shaved, brushed his teeth, then ventured out back towards his room, all the while his mind turning over the possibilities for the explosive headlines that day.

It would not take very long to get an answer.

Choosing to leave Portia to sleep a bit longer, he dressed then went downstairs. He knew where the kitchen was so he decided to help himself and make a pot of coffee. He watched the landscape change under the rays of the rising sun; it really was exquisite.

"Oh!" he heard; he turned to see Magda had appeared; his presence there had obviously surprised her. "I thought I was going mad, smelling coffee," she said. "Thank you for getting that started."

"My pleasure," he said. "Anything else I can do to help?"

"Nope," she chirped. "Have the oatmeal soaking, just need to get it to a boil, and fry up some bacon and eggs and what not. Jeremy's right behind me; he'll help. You're a guest here—go on, have a pastry and relax. We'll have everything up in a short while and I expect you'll have company soon enough."

The dining room was pristine and laid out for breakfast; he had no idea who had cleaned everything up or when. Fanciful images of little worker elves or fairies flitting about the room flashed through his mind; it had been something Bridget had suggested once, that Magda kept a passel of woodland creatures on hand to do her cleaning up. It made him smile to think of it.

As he bit into his apricot tartlet, took a sip of the strong, black coffee, he heard behind him:

"Morning, Mark."

He turned to see Jeremy bringing in a tray of honey, a variety of jams, and other breakfast condiments. Mark said, "Morning, Jeremy."

"Sleep all right?" he asked.

"Just fine. Thanks."

"You were up early, weren't you?" he asked.

"Mobile woke me, couldn't get back to sleep."

"Well, I'm hearing more sounds of life around the house so I suspect you'll have company soon. Be back with the coffee and the oatmeal in a tick."

Shortly after Jeremy departed Mark was joined by Horatio and Camilla; he felt quite thankful that the first to arrive were allies rather than, say, Sharon, though it was rather earlier than Sharon was likely to rise after imbibing so much wine. "Morning," said Horatio cordially. "Where'd you get the coffee?"

"Kitchen, though Jeremy said he's bringing the carafe up soon."

"Good, good," said Horatio.

Camilla piped up, "Are you holding up all right, Mark?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well… having your ex here," Camilla said.

"Too right," said Horatio. "Must be difficult to face your missteps."

At first he thought he meant facing up to the things he'd done wrong, but the longer he thought about it, the more he was convinced Horatio meant Bridget herself, that the marriage itself was a mistake. Since he wasn't certain, he kept his response neutral. "Yesterday was an aberration," Mark said. "We have been getting along quite well."

"For the children, I'm sure," said Camilla. "Poor things."

"Must be hard to have such a constant reminder of your error in judgment so close by," said Horatio. "And the mother of your children to boot."

Now he knew Horatio was insulting Bridget, their offspring, their very marriage, and was thinking of what to say in reply when he heard Bridget herself speak up. He wondered how much she had heard. "Very hard, I'm sure," she said in a sickeningly sweet voice but an icy glare at Mark. "Such a disappointment to anyone with good breeding. And to be saddled with a pair of mutts for children, such a pity." With that she breezed away towards the kitchen, nearly walking into Jeremy who was carrying a tureen.

He rose, calling after her: "Bridget." She did not heed him. To Horatio and Camilla he said, "That was uncalled for."

"I didn't know she was there."

"That doesn't matter," he said. "Pardon me." He went after her and into the kitchen, nearly crashing into Jeremy returning to the dining room, this time with the coffee. "Sorry. Bridget," he said, seeing her near Magda. "You know I don't feel that way."

"I didn't see you rising to my defence," she said. "They have never liked me, have tolerated me at best. I accepted that a long time ago. But to see you sit idly by and allow them to insult everything we had, insult our very children…"

"I didn't get a chance."

Bridget stared at him a moment, seemed poised to speak when Sharon came in. "Bridget, come on. Don't listen to his excuses." Sharon pulled her by the elbow back into the dining room.

"Pardon," said Jeremy, going by again with a plate of bacon and a big bowl of scrambled eggs. Mark realised he'd better get some food while there was still some to get.

Sebastian was now there, sitting beside Bridget at the enormous table with Sharon on the other side. "Well, you know how it is, they only care about who your parents are, how much land you have, what your title is… straight out of some fucking Austen novel," said Sharon, lit cigarette in hand. "Fucking paternalistic bullshit, is what it is."

"Too right," said Bridget, defiantly swiping Sharon's cigarette and taking a drag.

"More concerned about lining their own pockets than the greater good," said Sebastian, preparing to light a cigarette of his own, looking murderously at Mark's end of the table, where Horatio and Camilla sat.

"No smoking at table, Sharon; I've told you a hundred times." Magda appeared just then with some orange juice.

"Sorry, Mags," said Sharon glumly, stubbing it out on a tiny dessert plate. Sebastian put his away.

"Liberal codswallop," blustered Horatio. "A nice little thing you commies tell yourself to make government—"

At that moment Mark heard as well as felt his mobile start to go off. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out. It seemed to be another text from Daniel, which Mark read then read again because what he saw did not make sense.

_Aidan on BBC3 News!_

"Need the telly right now."

Along with the harsh scrape of the chair on the wooden floor, Bridget's voice cut through the din of the 'right v left' argument. He looked up to see Bridget holding her own mobile. Mark realised that Daniel must have sent them each the same message. Of course he would have. Mark met her eyes over the table, then without a word they both left the table. As she ran for the sitting room, he strode out of the room behind her.

"What's going on?" called Sharon from behind them; Mark came into the sitting room just as Bridget was flipping through channels, her hand quivering as it held onto the remote. Out of habit, but more importantly out of genuine concern, he slipped his arm around her shoulders to steady her. Finally she landed on BBC3. It was not Aidan at all, but an older woman. The caption on the screen, however, made sense of everything: _Mrs Alice Remington_. The title below it read _Scandal at Eton_.

"—the only one to defend my son against that brute, the only one!" she was saying. Mark thought this must have been pre-recorded, since she was lit by artificial light and the sky was dark around her. "And instead of giving him a commendation, they kick him out! All because of the son of a man who ran on a platform of education and discipline." Her eyes met the camera. "If it hadn't been for his mother, this never would have come to light, so: thank you, Bridget."

"Oh my God," said Bridget, her trembling hands coming to her mouth; he could feel her lose her balance, and he tightened his grip upon her upper arm. He was in a way relieved, as he was sure she was; he had been expecting so much worse, an accident, a house fire—

It switched back to the news presenter, a very serious looking woman who spoke in a very serious voice. "There is an in-depth review of the situation at Eton this morning, happening even as we speak, to assess if undue and unfair political pressure was put to keep Ethan Hawthorne in the prestigious school—"

"Have to get to London. Now," she said, her voice shaking. He turned and took her into his arms. He suspected she needed it as much as he did; regardless of their differences, when it came to their children, they were united, a force to be reckoned with.

"Yes," he agreed quietly.

"I don't think they gave his name, so he should be okay," Bridget babbled.

"We missed the beginning," he said. "Daniel seemed to indicate they hadn't, though. I think he just knew it was Aidan."

"Shall I call your house, Mark?"

He turned sharply to see Portia standing there with a strange expression on her face. "No," he said. "I'll call him directly myself."

Bridget pulled back, wiping tears from under her eyes before turning and searching for Sebastian. "We have to go," she said to him.

"I heard. I'll get our things together."

"But Mark," Portia said petulantly as Mark dialled Aidan's mobile. "Do we really have to leave straightaway? Doesn't seem like there's much that needs your immediate attention and…" She trailed off.

"What?"

"It'll really ruin our first weekend out together."

Mark was appalled, and did not do much to hide this fact. "You're free to stay if you wish," he said coolly. "Pardon me, it's ringing."

Mark vaguely heard Sebastian offering to take Portia back to London—"Aidan needs both of his parents right now," Sebastian said, which was very sensible of him—as he waited for Aidan to answer the line. Bridget was at his side, waiting to hear whatever news Aidan had to give.

"Dad," said Aidan. "I take it word has made it to the farthest reaches."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," said Aidan. "We're fine. There have been a few calls on the house line, a media van or two making us wary of going outside."

It relieved him deeply to hear Aidan in such good spirits. "I'm glad to hear." After a beat he asked, "Where do you need to go?"

"Not me," said Aidan sheepishly. "Um. Marilyn."

"Ah," said Mark, smiling a little.

"Oh, another van," he said; probably he was looking out of the window, and also deflecting conversation away from the likely activity of the previous night. "The media aren't as stupid as we are often led to believe."

"Excepting your mum."

"Well, of course, but who told me they were stupid in the first place?"

Mark laughed again, then turned his gaze towards a very anxious-looking Bridget. "Speaking of, your mum is right here and wants to talk to you."

The moment the phone came away from his ear Bridget reached and took it from him, bringing it up to speak. "Aidan, sweetie, are you okay?" She looked up to Mark, and it was only once she heard the words come from his own mouth that she looked genuinely relieved. "I'm so glad to hear; you have no idea. Yes, we're leaving momentarily."

By the time Bridget disconnected with Aidan, Portia was approaching Mark looking very chastened. "Sorry about my outburst before," she said. "Go ahead back to town as soon as you need to. I'll pack our things up and will ride back with Mr Chamberlain."

He smiled, feel much more charitable towards her in that moment. "Thank you."

Portia reached up and pecked his cheek, surely aware how many eyes were upon them. "Have a safe drive." When Mark turned to ask Bridget if she was ready, he found Sebastian holding her face in his hands and planting a firm kiss right on her lips.

"Call when you can," he said quietly to her. "It'll be fine."

She nodded, then looked to Mark. "I'm ready when you are."


	10. Chapter 10: Against the Gathering Storm

**Change of Heart**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 5,603 (this chapter)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.<span>: See Chapter 1.

N.B.: I'm pretty sure there are no typos or missed words but if there are, they are entirely my own fault.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10: Against the Gathering Storm<strong>

Mark had no illusions of the drive being anything like those in the past. With the news of the morning Bridget was very quiet; since she was usually the talkative one, not a whole lot was said, and what he said was of a fairly trivial nature. The words he wanted to offer, the apology long overdue to Bridget, were not at all forthcoming.

"For his birthday Aidan wants to go out for pizza and a film with Marilyn and his friends," Mark said at one point; her response was a murmuring acquiescence. At another, he verified that the vehicle they'd agreed upon was secured, and that as far as he knew Aidan's road safety instruction was going well.

"That's good," she said in a small voice.

He drove directly to her place, parking at the kerb. As they emerged from the vehicle, Mark took a look around; he saw nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that might be press photographers, but in his experience that did not necessarily mean there weren't any lurking around. When he followed her up the steps and to the door of her house, he placed his hand gently and reassuringly on her shoulder. She turned and gave him an odd look before apparently realising he probably wanted to see Aidan too.

Aidan must have witnessed their approach, because he was waiting for them near the front door. "Mum, Dad," he said, then gratefully accepted her embrace. "This is all so weird. Never would have thought anything like _this_ would happen. I wasn't trying to make a political statement or anything."

"I know," she said. "It's just too bad it didn't come out at the start." Bridget looked pointedly at Mark, just as Lizzie and Marilyn came in the room. "Girls," she said with a wan smile. "Everything all right with you?"

"We're good," said Lizzie with a smile. "It's all kind of _exciting_, actually."

"It _is_ exciting," said Marilyn in a less-than-convinced tone, her arms crossing her waist. "More exciting than I sort of wanted."

Mark gave her an understanding smile.

"Well, now the truth's out, that can't be a bad thing, can it?" asked Lizzie. "Everyone can see what a jerk that kid was and how right Aidan was to sock him in the face."

"It wasn't really 'right'," said Aidan, "though I'm glad they'll finally get what's coming to them."

Listening to this exchange humiliated Mark, not only for failing to make amends with Bridget over this whole situation, but for failing to come up with the right words with which to do it. If not for driving the car, if not for the presence of the children, he thought he might have just allowed the words to spill out without regard for eloquence, but knew he was probably fooling himself. He was just making excuses.

He needed to go back to the house and regroup.

"Glad to see you're holding up all right," Mark said at last, offering his son a smile. "I think I'll head home, but if you need anything… just ask."

Bridget looked stunned. Aidan smiled in return. "I will."

Mark turned his gaze to Marilyn. "Do you want a ride home?"

"Me? No, I'm good," she said with a shy grin. "I'd like to stay a bit longer if that's okay with Bridget."

"That's just fine with me," Bridget said in a strangely disconnected voice.

He cleared his throat, thoughts swirling regarding his need to apologise, but oddly focused on the mundane. "Walk with me to the car?"

They walked back outside together. "Bridget," he said. She turned with an expectant expression on her face. "I just wanted to say I've been giving this a lot of thought and… well, that I will carry the cost of the car myself."

"What?"

"It's a big expense," he said. "I know this house can't be cheap to rent, and with the children living here primarily…. The car can still be from both of us, though."

She stood there with glassy, wide eyes, until Lizzie poked her head through the front door and told Bridget she had a call. "We'll speak later," she said softly. He hoped in his heart that his gesture was truly as well-received as her reaction had indicated.

When Mark got home, he found his copy of the day's newspaper upon the stoop. He took it to the kitchen, made himself some tea, intending to read through all of the details of what had transpired. In waiting for the kettle to boil, he found a few messages on the home line not unexpectedly related to the big news of the day: Alice Remington; his mother; a representative of the newspaper he was about to read. As he settled in with a calming cup of Darjeeling, he read intently; there were parts with which he was of course already familiar, but the extent to which Victor Hawthorne's influence invaded like ivy through the very foundation of his beloved alma mater both disgusted and angered him. Arthur Remington had also not been the first boy subjected to Ethan's bullying ways; every incident had not only resulted in no punishment for Ethan Hawthorne, but usually resulted in the bullied boy hastily transferring away, as was the case for Arthur. Mark suspected more would begin to come forward as the story gained momentum. It was also intimated that the apple did not fall far from the tree, that Ethan, feeling weak before an overbearing, intimidating father, exerted his own power by taking it out on those weaker than he, in order to attempt to draw his father's attention away from his obvious top priority of politics.

As Mark closed the newspaper, he sighed; he felt a sense of pity for Ethan, anger towards Victor (a man he had supported politically), and devastating remorse for everything he'd done wrong during this nightmare time.

Snapping him from his thoughts was the sound of a door slamming shut up on the main floor. Instantly on alert, he threw down the paper, mind racing, wondering if he'd forgotten to latch the door, and ran to the stairs. If it were an intruder, there was no tactical advantage to giving away his position, so he did not call out anything in advance of ascending.

When he got to the top of the stairs and rounded the turn, he stopped short. With all the wild fire in her eyes as any banshee of legend, Bridget was standing there, hands defiantly on her hips.

"How dare you!" she fumed.

Bridget's sounding off with such an aggressive opening salvo did not predispose him to calm, rational discussion. His own temper shot through the ceiling, and he retorted with more defensiveness than he ordinarily would have. "Why are you attacking me this time?"

"I need to tell you?" she cried. "I can do perfectly well paying for my part of Aidan's gift, and I really resent that you think I can't! You continue to undermine my independence, and it makes me—"

He interrupted: "A bit of a disproportionate response, Bridget, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, that's _just_ the tip of the iceberg," she said, her voice trembling, "the final straw on the camel's back. I thought you _might_ actually be decent enough today, but—well, I suppose it was too much to expect to think you cared enough to admit you were _wrong_."

His guilt on the subject was matched only by the urge to swing back, and hard. "I tried to on the day Arthur's mother called but as I interrupted what sounded like a particularly vigorous round of sex—"

"Sex?" she said, agape. She furrowed her brow, evidently thinking back to that night, then recalling: "Sebastian and I were playing on the Wii with Lizzie, some bloody dance game! How _typical_ of you to assume the worst of me!"

"I could well say the same, Bridget," he said. "Assuming every late night working must have been some kind of secret assignation with a co-worker—"

"One you are currently regularly shagging!" she shouted back. "And, I might remind you, one your son interrupted doing… _God-knows-what_ to you."

He took in a breath, let it out in a frustrated rush. "She could have been doing my bloody _colours_ for all I know, Bridget. I don't _remember_. Anything I might have done that night was a horrible aberration."

Bridget scoffed at this. "Convenient, Mark. I don't know why you won't just admit that you continue with this ridiculous story, that you haven't apologised to me, because it was all a pretext to be with her! How stupid do you think I am?"

"Pretty stupid to believe I'd risk everything—"

He stopped when she swung her hand up in order to slap his face; he caught her wrist, and his arm trembled with the force of holding her back. He looked down into her eyes, studied her features; despite the fury—or perhaps because of it, so passionate and full of life—he thought she looked absolutely ravishing. His anger was quickly dissolving. After all, he would not want her any other way.

"You're behaving in a childish and irrational manner," he said. "As usual."

"I'll show you childish and irrational," she seethed, then writhed in order to try to knee him in the groin. He bent his knees and launched her forward to avoid the blow, then quickly pulled her flush against him and clamped his free arm around her waist. She struggled against him, tried to push herself away in an effort to break his grip. "Let me go," she demanded.

In response he leaned back slightly, lifting her up off of the ground.

"Mark!" she shrieked. "Put me down!"

"Settle down first," he said.

She turned to meet his gaze with her piercing one. "I'll kick you in the shin," she threatened.

"You can't reach my shin," he said, chuckling under his breath.

"You b—"

Without conscious thought, with no reason or rationale, he found himself taking her mouth with his own. How he had missed having her in his arms, holding her closely… but it rapidly became clear he had acted in error, particularly as she was not returning the kiss or responding at all favourably. He pulled away.

"I'm sorry," he said in a deep tone; she was standing on her own feet again and he had no memory of lowering her. He was afraid to meet her eyes, but knew he must, and when he did, the sight that greeted him was a surprise; her angry expression was tempered by a softness he had not seen in some time.

"Bastard," she finished, her voice rough.

With that she lurched forward, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him with all of the fierceness with which he had kissed her. He took her in his arms, pulled her up against him; the contact of their bodies, so familiar yet so long denied, was having an immediate effect on him and, he suspected, on her. Before he knew it she was plucking at the buttons on his shirt; he was running his hands down over her backside, pressing his fingers firmly into her; as he searched and lifted up the edge of her skirt, she nipped at his lower lip and fumbled with the fly on his trousers. Moving towards the wall in their frenzy, they bumped up against the Queen Anne table in the foyer; Mark heard a clatter as the objects arranged there (a small picture frame, a lamp, a decorative candlestick) shook in their place. He leaned her arse back against it, then on it; he tugged down hard on her pants then threw them to the floor.

Gruffly she panted his name as they joined; he worried fleetingly for the objects that now clattered to the floor, for the prominent location in the house in which this lust had overtaken them, for the structural integrity of the furniture, but only in the smallest recesses of his brain that weren't completely overtaken with his passion for her. This was evidenced by how quickly he reached satisfaction, how loudly he'd done so, and how eager he was to bring her to her own vocal climax.

"Bridget," he whispered as he panted into the curve of her neck. "I'm—"

"Don't say you're sorry," she said quietly.

"No, I have to," he said. "But right now—" He stood up straight, lifted her up into his arms, hands cradling her arse; she wrapped her legs around his waist in reflex. "—I don't want to."

He scaled the stairs and headed straight back for the master bedroom, which he still thought of as theirs; he had of course continued to have the housekeeper keep the room tidy and he had gone in for items of clothing as needed, but he had not lived in the room since she'd gone. As he set her on the edge of the bed, he noticed her looking around herself, her expression a mixture of perplexed and touched. He sat beside her, reached to cup her face in his hand, then leaned and kissed her.

Their intimacy once again escalated quickly, and before he knew it they were each divested of their clothes and writhing around beneath the sheets, soft linen that still smelled faintly of lavender. There was still a definite urgency to their lovemaking, though the tenderness, the comfort of familiarity, was unmistakeably present, too.

Mark was well on his way to culmination again, thought they both were, when, in the heat of everything, Bridget gasped, pushed him away and clutched the duvet up to her chin. Hurt, he looked to her… and only then realised another voice was sounding out in the room, wailing in a high-pitched scream.

"—back to town to find _her_ pants in the foyer, find you in here with _that woman_, cheating on _me_!"

It was Portia; Mark had no idea how long she had been standing there. Rather than looking upset, sad or emotionally devastated, she was red-faced and seething. Her usual mask of composure, of gentility and civility, was gone. For emphasis she held up then threw down the pants in a rage. He had forgotten that he had given her a key, not for any sentimental reason, but simply so she could arrive first for a late work-related meeting at the house.

"Though I suppose I should have known," she raged on, "once a cheater, always a cheater!"

"Well, actually… no."

Another voice, calm, masculine, familiar and slightly distant; a quick "Oh my God" issued from the bed beside Mark confirmed it was Sebastian's. A few more steps and Sebastian was on the floor and in the room. He seemed unperturbed; indeed, unsurprised.

"Just back to town, brought Portia over, and saw your car on the street, Bridget; hello."

"Hello," she replied in a weird voice.

"Thought I'd come in to see if you were all right, door was open, mess in the foyer—then I heard shouting up here. Anyway," Sebastian said, waving his hand. "I think it's time to clear things up. Fix things."

"What do you mean?" asked Mark.

"From what I've been able to piece together from observations and conversations over the past few months, as well as over the last two _hours_, I'm now morally certain that Mark did no such thing. Cheat on you, Bridget, I mean."

"What?" gasped Bridget.

The way that the colour drained from Portia's face actually startled Mark.

"When I met Bridget," Sebastian said, "I admit I was charmed beyond reason." He then smiled tenderly towards Bridget. "But she told me in detail about what had happened in her marriage, and hearing those details—long marriage, working long hours, nice wife to keep the home fires burning, nice family life, such that maybe you needed a little spice with an affair or two—I was fully prepared to dislike you, Mark; not to mention you vote Tory, whom I'm typically predisposed to dislike from the start." His tone was joking, even jovial; Mark was too gobsmacked to retort. "She also told me she wasn't ready at all for anything serious, and I was all right with that. I was happy to let things develop as they would."

"Sebastian, I'm sorry—" began Bridget.

"Let me finish," Sebastian said, holding up his hand. "Then I met Mark that January day, and I was very, _very_ surprised. He was not acting like a man who was glad to be rid of his wife for another woman, glad to get out of the situation with so little difficulty or financial responsibility. He was acting possessive. _Jealous_. My curiosity was definitely piqued." Sebastian turned to Mark. "I've seen you with Portia, Mark. You have never acted overly affectionate, were never physically demonstrative. You never seemed in love with her."

"I never said that I was," Mark said defensively.

"I'm not saying you did. I'm just saying this to contrast every meeting I've witnessed between you and Bridget, where… well, sparks still flew, even _I_ could see that. Plus, you know, you seemed like a decent man to boot, and your children are wonderful, bright, and well-adjusted."

"Are you actually _defending_ the fact that they betrayed us both?" Portia shrilled; clearly she had recovered her composure and wanted the spotlight back on her drama.

"I'm getting to my point," said Sebastian; he rather reminded Mark of a lawyer during summation. "Before Aidan and Mark had their moment of reconciliation, Aidan confided in me about that night. Bridget, he was too embarrassed to say anything too detailed to you, not that I necessarily think he knew precisely what it was he saw. Something he said to me really struck me, though. He said something along the lines of… 'My father just laid there, didn't move a muscle, barely seemed conscious of my presence even though he was looking straight at me, made no attempt at all to justify or defend himself, and worst of all, didn't even come after me.'"

"Ohh," said Bridget sorrowfully; Mark's heart sunk at this reminder of how Aidan must have felt that night, in such turmoil.

Sebastian continued: "I couldn't help but wonder how a man who was supposedly actively making love to a woman could be not only in such a comatose state, but not run concerned after his only son who was clearly distraught, alone that late at night halfway across the city. I think even old Victor Hawthorne wouldn't leave Ethan dangling that way."

"You tricked me," said Portia with an angry frown.

"I didn't trick you," he said. "I only tried to be polite and make you understand it was important for them to be united for their son—which, I believe, made you think I was on your side, and consequently, you gave yourself away, Portia. You said you were glad Bridget and I had found each other because it helped Mark to realise his marriage was over so you could _finally start sleeping together_."

The emphasis Sebastian put on these words was not lost on Mark, and it was his turn to be utterly stunned. Mark in turn stared at Portia so intently she became instantly fidgety. It was true that he and Portia had not begun seeing one another in earnest until after he had learned Bridget had started dating Sebastian, but Mark had utterly believed they'd slept together that drunken night—and Portia had let him believe it. "Did you really say that?"

"I would _never_ use such crass language," Portia said haughtily.

"But is it true?" Mark asked with anger tinting his voice.

Portia bit down on her lower lip, trembling with frustration at the corner into which she had painted herself. She then exhaled. "I suppose I can't deny it, can I?" she said, her voice high, irritated and obviously strained. "You were drunk, I decided to make a move, but you were too far gone to respond, so far gone all you could do was moan and whine about the fight with your _darling little wife_." The poison in her tone was hard to miss. "It felt like heaven was shining down on me when your son showed up. I'd just get the wheels in motion and grab the chance when I could."

Mark felt the cool, calm, collected barrister persona slide into place and take control of his emotions. "We didn't sleep together, do _anything_, that night in November."

"No," Portia admitted.

"Nor at any time prior to that night?" Mark asked; his courtroom instincts demanded full disclosure.

Portia looked to Bridget with resentment. "No."

"Not until well after that night?" Mark asked.

"Not for a lack of trying," Portia said with a scoff.

"One more thing," he said. "That key I loaned you? Please leave it when you go."

"Go?"

"I don't want to see you again."

"But we work—"

"Yes, we work together," said Mark. "I'm sure it will be awkward. You'll have to get over it."

After a moment of giving him a hard stare, she looked murderously at Sebastian before digging into her pocket, taking out the key and slapping it down on the bureau. She then turned in a huff and left.

At last Mark glanced towards Bridget; she looked ashen and was trembling. "Sebastian," she said feebly. "You know I care a lot about you."

"I know you do, and I care about you too," he said, sitting beside her, patting the duvet over her knee where she sat cross-legged. "A lot. But I know you're really only going to truly be happy with this man—" He jerked his thumb in Mark's direction. "—and I couldn't with a clear conscience sit back and not clear his reputation when I had the power to do so."

Mark was filled with a whole new level of respect for the man, and watched them regarding one another for many long moments before Sebastian leaned forward and pressed a light kiss into her cheek. "I hope we can still be friends," Sebastian said, the tone of his voice betraying for the first time any sense of loss he might be feeling.

Bridget nodded as Sebastian stood up again. "Goodbye, Sebastian," she said quietly.

"Goodbye, Bridget," he said, then gave a little nod to Mark before rising and heading for the door; Mark nodded too. In all sincerity he hoped he might become friends with the man after all the dust had settled.

"Sebastian?" asked Bridget in that same meek tone; this was enough to stop him in his tracks and turn to look at her again. "How come you aren't angry?"

"Because I was sort of expecting this might happen," Sebastian said frankly. He smiled one last time, then left the room, closing the door behind himself.

When Mark heard the faint sound of what he presumed to be the front door slamming, he turned his gaze to Bridget again. No time like the present to apologise. "Bridget," he said quietly but emphatically. "I'm sorry for everything, but especially for the fight that night and for doubting your instinct when it came to our son. I should have known him as well as you did."

"You do now," she replied.

He had to concede that was true, and he did so with a little nod. "I know I said and did a lot of things that hurt you. For that I don't think I can ever fully make it up to you, but if you give me a chance I'd like to try." From the way her eyes shone, he knew she was emotionally affected; if she were unmoved, if she had completely ruled out reconciliation, she would not be on the verge of tears. With the benefit of this momentum he continued to speak. "I'm not asking for an answer this very moment. Think about it. But I do want you back if you'll have me."

She nodded, but not to say she would take him back; rather, the way she glanced down, covered her mouth with her hand, told him that she wanted time to consider it. She sniffled, inhaling deeply, then wiped dampness from under her eyes before she looked at him. "I should go."

Mark had hoped in the deepest recesses of his heart that she might stay longer, but he understood. He held out his arm to offer her an embrace, which she accepted; he folded her against him, pressed a kiss into her hair.

"I'm sorry too," she said in a voice so soft he almost didn't hear her. "I should have trusted you more than to think—"

"Shh," he said, stopping her. "What matters is that you know the truth now. We both do."

She lifted her chin to look up at him, then raised her lips to his for a sweet, quick kiss; as she drew back again, she burst out in tears and started sobbing in earnest. With her still in his arms he laid back against the pillows, dragging the bed sheets over the both of them lest they get chilled. He reached over to what would always to him be Bridget's side of the bed for the box of tissues she'd always kept; she laughed at the sight of it then cried a little harder. He was patient, felt as emotional as he ever had, and held her as long as she needed to be held. After her tears subsided she still made no move to leave despite her insistence she should. In fact, they laid in the dim room for so long he thought for sure she'd gone to sleep.

"Mark?" she asked, cutting the silence.

"Yes, darling?"

A pause. "You didn't change anything in here."

"No," he said. "I haven't slept in here a single night since… then."

"Not once?"

"This was our room," he said. "I couldn't."

"Not even with—"

"_Especially_ not with," he said, cutting her off. "I suppose eventually I would have started living in here again. Maybe… ten, fifteen years from now."

Bridget unexpectedly laughed, which delighted him to hear. "I have to admit," she said, "I've missed you."

"Mm," he murmured. "I couldn't tell."

She chuckled again. "And you?"

Mark thought it had been quite plain he had, so he teased, "Not a bit."

She pushed herself up to look into his eyes. "If I give you that chance," she said, somewhat more serious than a moment ago, "we're not going to be able to just snap into the way things used to be, you know."

"I know," he said gravely.

"Just so we're clear," she said.

"Crystal."

Just then the house line began to ring, and in a rush Mark suddenly returned to the reality of the day: Aidan, Arthur, Ethan and Eton. He pushed himself up and reached for the handset on the side of the bed.

"Mark Darcy speaking."

"Dad?" It was Lizzie; she sounded really worried. "Is Mum there? She left really upset hours ago, and I couldn't get hold of her and—"

"Yes, love, she's here," he said. "Don't worry."

Lizzie sighed. "Oh good."

"Want to speak with her?"

"Sure," Lizzie said.

He handed the phone, and immediately Bridget said, "Hi darling, I'm fine." There was a pause, during which she listened intently. "Yes, I know, and I'm very, very sorry." Another pause. "No, don't order delivery. I'll come back to fix dinner." She went quiet again, and as Lizzie spoke, her eyes darted up to look at Mark. "No… I'm afraid he won't be coming. He, um, had something else to do tonight." At that moment Mark knew she meant Sebastian, and felt unexpectedly relieved. "Sure, I'll ask him if he's free." She covered her hand over the mouthpiece. "Want to come have supper with us?" she asked with a small, crooked smile.

"I would love to."

She spoke into the phone again. "Yes, he'll come. All right. See you soon. Bye." She pressed the button to disconnect, then handed the phone back to him. "Well. It's a date."

It was his turn to chuckle, and spontaneously he leaned forward to kiss her. One kiss became a second, then blended into a long, slow, languorous kiss; with this they were swept up in their reclaimed passion, but rather than the rushed frenzy of earlier, this time there was tenderness and reverence. How much he had missed her indeed.

"Mark," Bridget breathed afterwards as she ran her fingers over the fine mat of hair on his chest.

"Yes, darling?"

"So were you never in love with Portia then?" she asked, her voice shaking.

He looked down to her, saw tears in the corners of her eyes as she looked up to him. "Not even a little bit, Bridget. She was a friend to me, or at least I thought she was. Of course in light of this new information everything she did had an ulterior motive." He smiled a little. "It was impossible to be in love with her," he said, "because I was and always will be in love with you."

A tear escaped down her cheek, but she smiled, even laughed a little. "Bastard," she teased, then leaned forward and kissed him again, then snuggled into his arms.

They laid together for some time before either of them spoke again. "You know what?" asked Bridget.

"What?"

"We're really going to have to do takeaway now," she said. He laughed. "Plus you know, I'm going to get another earful from Lizzie."

"Another?"

"Mm," she said. "Yes. Told me off for not calling sooner to let her know where I'd gone. She's more like you every day, you know."

He chuckled again, then, pecking her quickly, he sat up. "Well. I haven't had pizza in months."

They dressed—Mark stifled a smile as she slipped into her pants, thinking back on Portia's dramatic entry and feeling quite thankful to have slipped the yoke of that relationship—then went downstairs and to her car.

When they turned up to Bridget's house with a couple of boxes of pizza in hand, Lizzie was primed and ready to tell them off. Hands on her hips, she demanded, "What took so long? I was getting worried."

"I know, we're sorry," said Bridget. "We got… side-tracked."

Marilyn, Mark noted, was there again, probably still there from earlier. "Pepperoni pizza," Mark explained. "You don't object to pepperoni, do you?"

"Not in the least," Marilyn said with a grin.

The evening with the children and Marilyn filled Mark's heart with happiness; it was a small glimpse of what they once had as a family, and, with any luck, would have again. As Aidan, Marilyn and Lizzie settled in to watch a film, Mark helped Bridget in the kitchen tidying up after their dinner.

"Have a question," Mark said.

"Oh?"

"Wanted to know… are you free for dinner tomorrow?"

She looked to him and laughed. "Are you asking me out?"

"Might be," he said. "I figure if we're going to do this, we should do it properly."

"Ah," she said with a smirk. "Years of marriage, then sex, then dating. That seems proper."

He chuckled, went to her and embraced her, then kissed her. "I will take it in any order it comes."

A quiet throat-clearing subtly announced the presence of a third person. Mark turned, and saw Aidan standing there with a tender smile. "Just wanted some more Coke," he said.

"Of course," said Bridget. Mark wanted to laugh at her slightly sheepish demeanour as she busied herself with getting another can from the fridge; it reminded Mark oddly of her mother.

Aidan leaned forward. "Does that mean Portia's out of the picture?" he asked quietly.

Mark nodded. "She was never really in it. I'll explain more later."

"Okay," Aidan said with a smile. "Though I rather liked Sebastian."

"I don't think you'll never see him again. Don't worry."

Aidan furrowed his brows.

"He helped bring this about," explained Mark.

Bridget presented Aidan with his Coke. "Here you are, sweetheart."

"Will explain more later," said Mark again quietly. Aidan nodded then left the kitchen; Mark turned around to see she had gone quite pink. "Oh, Bridget," he said, allowing a light laugh at last. "You don't have to be embarrassed that our son caught us in a clutch."

"I'm not, really," she said, then smiled. "Well. No more so than I ever was." He smiled too.

Mark stepped forward again, leaned and kissed her. "Thank you for the wonderful evening," he said, "but I suppose I should leave."

She seemed surprised for a moment, but then she nodded. "Until dinner tomorrow."

"I'll pick you up after work."

He took her into his arms then kissed her again… and again. And again. Now that he could have her back in his arms, he wanted to keep her there as much as possible.

"Mark," she gasped, breaking away as his hands slid down over her backside. "Sod it. Stay over."

It seemed she felt the same, and for that he was grateful. "What will the children think?" he teased; she laughed too.

"That their dad is back," she said. "Mm. To stay."

At this they heard a shriek. It was Lizzie and she ran and hugged them both at once. "It's true!" she exclaimed, her voice muffled into her father's arm.

Mark laughed, tightening his embrace. He noticed Bridget's face turning bright red once more, and he laughed a little harder.


	11. Chapter 11: Change of Heart

**Change of Heart**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 6,243 (this chapter)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11: Change of Heart<strong>

It was a bit strange to Mark to wake up in a bed that was not in the home in which he had lived for so long, and he had a moment of utter discombobulation before he remembered he was at Bridget's. He glanced to his side to see Bridget was still fast asleep. He smiled, leaned and pressed a kiss into her temple before rising from the bed.

He dressed in his clothes from the day before, went to the bathroom to splash water onto his face, then headed for the kitchen intend on making some coffee, which should have been a relatively simple task. It wasn't.

First there was the matter of finding the coffee itself: eventually he realised by smell alone that it was in an old biscuit tin in the pantry with the sweets. Next was the search for coffee maker—how an object which was used daily could be so well concealed was beyond his understanding.

He heard a chuckle behind him. Aidan.

"Morning, Dad."

Mark turned around with a sheepish grin. "Don't suppose you know where the coffee maker is."

Aidan went to a cupboard over the range. "It fits up there perfectly and anything else small would get forgotten as being out of sight."

"Why not just leave it on the counter top?" he asked as his son pulled it down.

"Mum claims she'll drink less coffee that way," he said, "but I suspect she just ends up buying more cappuccinos at the café." Mark laughed as he got the coffee set up to brew. "At least this bizarre coffee maker storage rationalisation won't be in effect for much longer," Aidan added. "At least… I hope it won't."

Mark grinned. "That's my hope too," he said, "but I haven't talked to your mother about it yet." It occurred to Mark at that moment that he had not kept his promise from the night before. "You know, Aidan, you deserve to know the full truth of what you saw in the office, what actually happened," said Mark, "or rather, didn't happen."

Aidan looked perplexed. "What didn't happen?"

"Despite what you thought you saw, I did not sleep with Portia that night," he said.

Instead of the look of surprise Mark expected or an indignant demand to know why his father was lying, Aidan only gave him a little smile. "I… actually thought you might not have."

It was Mark's turn to be shocked. "What?"

"Well, obviously at first I thought you had," said Aidan, running his hand over the hair at the nape of his neck in a very familiar manoeuvre. "But then… well, I saw that picture of Mum with her pregnant belly still on your computer desktop and… well, to keep _that_ there… didn't make sense in light of what was supposed to have happened. I guess I'd been too angry to notice the little things that didn't add up, angry at you, angry at me… and feeling guilty because you had been fighting about me. But the picture got me to thinking, and then… well, I was talking to Marilyn… and she totally agreed that you were, and I quote, 'obviously' still in love with Mum, so I knew I'd been right."

Mark was about to ask why he hadn't spoken up sooner, but if Mark had himself believed it to be true, then there would have been no point in Aidan saying a thing. "You know that if I had realised it sooner, or _ever_, I would have said so." Mark shuddered to think of the path he might have taken if not for Sebastian's interference. "I didn't remember what happened; what you'd said you'd seen was pretty damning… and Portia herself told me we had."

"Ugh," said Aidan. "Two-faced, backstabbing, conniving cow… I never really liked her and I'm glad we won't have to put up with her anymore."

Mark laughed, then affected a mock-stern tone to say, "Respect your elders, son." This caused Aidan to laugh too.

"After all," Aidan said with the same tone, "cows are holy in parts of India."

The two of them were still chuckling when Bridget appeared, blinking sleepily and looking confused. "What's so funny?" she asked. "I could hear you clear up to the foyer."

"Nothing, love," said Mark, slipping his arm around her waist and kissing the top of her head. "Nothing at all."

…

Despite her implied desire to take things slowly in their reconciliation, they were very nearly inseparable after that Sunday afternoon. They did have dinner the next night, which resulted in their spending the night together in the master bedroom at the Holland Park house.

"When will you move back?" he asked as they laid there in the dark.

"Oh, Mark, I don't want to move back here," she said matter-of-factly.

He froze. "You don't… what?" He pushed himself up, switching on the bedside lamp. She pushed herself up as well.

"It's contaminated, Mark," she said. At his expression she burst out into a laugh. "I'm _kidding_, Mark. It's just that I really like having a pastel blue house—" He must have looked apoplectic, for she laughed again. "I really am kidding. We'll come back here. There are too many memories, and I really sort of miss this bed. Besides, we can always paint this house blue—"

"Nearly gave me a heart attack, you naughty girl," he growled, then pinned her down to the pillow to kiss her. "Don't ever stop."

She kissed him again, then smiled. "Though you know, perhaps I shall set fire to the guest room bed."

He laughed once more. "I am very grateful," he said.

"For what exactly?"

"Well, lots," he said. "But right now I'm particularly grateful for a son old enough to keep an eye on his younger sister."

"Mm," she said, obvious pleasure in her voice. "So am I."

She then proceeded to show him the depths of that gratitude.

…

When Mark called to advise his mother about the reconciliation—and about how the split was based on a complete fabrication—she went stone silent for many minutes. "Oh, Mark," she said. "It relieves me greatly, though I must be honest and say I feel a little ashamed that I thought you were ever capable of such infidelity."

Bridget informed her own parents and their reaction was similar; in fact, Pam demanded to talk to Mark and when she got on the line she cooed over him so effusively that he actually began to blush a little.

Aidan and Lizzie were obviously excited: that their parents were reuniting, obviously, as well as that they would be returning to the house in which they'd grown up. Bridget took care of subletting the rental house through the end of the lease agreement, and made arrangements for movers to bring their things back to Holland Park. Unfortunately the movers could not come any sooner than the second week of June. "That's okay," said Bridget. "We'll just pack our bags full of the important stuff, and come back now."

For his part, Mark got to work immediately at halting the bureaucratic nightmare in which their divorce proceedings had most providentially gotten caught. Besides this very critical action, there were two other things to which Mark had to attend.

The first was to pick up the car they had purchased for Aidan. Bridget insisted in pitching in half from her own money; he decided not to put up a fight.

The second took a little bit more in terms of arrangements; tracking down a certain address without his wife's help, then taking time from his work day to pay said address a visit.

As the door swung open, the expression of astonishment was about what Mark expected.

"Hello Sebastian," Mark said. "Sorry to drop in so unexpectedly like this, but I felt it necessary."

"To take me by surprise?" he said with a grin. "Well, mission accomplished. Please, come in." He stepped aside to allow Mark passage. "To what do I owe the honour?"

Mark had been giving a lot of thought to what he might say to Sebastian since the events of that Sunday, which seemed an age ago but was in actual fact just four days prior. "I just wanted to express," Mark began, "a _very_ heartfelt thank you."

"You're welcome, Mark," he said. "I felt an obligation to the truth… and to Bridget's happiness."

Mark only understood then that while Bridget had never considered her relationship with Sebastian very serious, it seemed quite obvious Sebastian did; he held up a good façade, but it was not something that was easy to sustain, and it was starting to show signs of strain. "I know how hard that must have been for you," Mark said, "sacrificing your own happiness in the process."

"I couldn't have lived with myself if I hadn't."

Mark held out his hand, and Sebastian accepted it. "Thank you," Mark said again, "for your honesty and generosity. I would be honoured to call you friend."

Sebastian grinned. "Perhaps we liberals aren't so bad, eh?" he joked.

"Not so bad at all," Mark said. "After all, I've loved one unconditionally for more than twenty years."

Sebastian smiled. "You don't mind then, do you, if I drop by the house to drop off a gift for Aidan's birthday?"

"Not at all," Mark said. "In fact we're having a little birthday cake with lunch on Saturday. You're welcome to join us. You've been such a feature in the children's lives—"

"I appreciate the offer," he interrupted gently, "but I will have to think about it."

Mark felt suddenly foolish for even having asked. "I understand. Well. I'm sure we'll meet again soon."

"I'm sure we will, my friend," said Sebastian. With that, Mark departed.

…

Mark's return to chambers after reuniting with his estranged wife was interesting to say in the least. The majority of his partners seemed very pleased for him, excepting perhaps Horatio, but that did not surprise him. Portia regarded him, treated him the air of someone wanting to punish him, as if perhaps she anticipated he would beg her to take him back; in other words, she ignored him. These tactics of hers worked to Mark's satisfaction completely. In fact, he was quite grateful for them.

It was fortunate that Aidan himself had garnered so little media attention, even though the story continued to spiral out of control; wealthy, influential parents began to speak out and call for Victor Hawthorne to step down. Even more children stepped forward, not just for being bullied by Ethan, but by his two male cousins as well. Hawthorne's political career appeared to be over.

Mark, however, cared more about his son's seventeenth birthday as the month of March wound down.

On that Saturday morning immediately after breakfast, Mark and Bridget invited Aidan down to the street. "Mind a little walk?" Mark asked.

"No," he said, visibly confused.

In her infinite curiosity, Lizzie naturally joined them. They began to walk together, Lizzie tailing behind until Mark stopped and turned to face his son. He thrust his hand into his pocket. "I have something for you."

"Oh?"

"Mm," said Mark, then folded his fingers around the set of keys there. "Yes." He pulled out his hand and held it towards Aidan. "Here you are."

"What?" Aidan asked as the keys landed with a jingle in his hand. "This is—" He froze then looked to his father. "You didn't."

"We did," said Mark with a grin, then tilted his head towards the economical little blue Fiat Panda parked at the kerb.

"That's… _mine_?" asked Aidan. "I'd seen it but… I just thought it was a neighbour's."

"That's yours," confirmed Bridget.

Aidan went up to the window and looked inside. "Like James Bond's," he said reverently.

Mark chuckled. "We can have a spin 'round the block if you like," he said.

Aidan turned with a wide grin. "Yeah."

Mark glanced to Bridget. "Do you mind?"

"Ooh, let's go!" said Lizzie.

"Go ahead," she said with a wink, more than happy to allow this father-son time. "We'll wait here."

"Mum!" protested Lizzie; as the men climbed into the car, he heard Bridget say something quietly to her daughter in a mildly conspiratorial tone.

Aidan took the wheel, started the car, and they were off for their short jaunt. Mark was impressed at his skill for such a young age, and said so to his son. "Thank God you didn't take after your mum in that respect," he joked.

For the briefest flash of a moment Mark thought he'd gone over the line and insulted Bridget in Aidan's eyes, but unlike that awkward comment over lunch with Portia, Aidan grinned, then laughed. "I'm glad you drive when we go out, to be honest," he said. "Mum's a bit of a nightmare driver."

"A bit," Mark agreed. "Of course, this is just between you and me."

"Of course," said Aidan.

Aidan displayed his ability yet again when parking the little car; easier than a sedan, to be sure, but parallel parking could be a challenge for even experienced drivers. Bridget and Lizzie still stood there awaiting their return, and only when the car's engine was disengaged and the two of them emerged did Bridget smile.

"How'd it go?" asked Bridget.

"He's an ace driver," said Mark.

"Well," said Bridget, "no talking on the mobile whilst driving, and especially no texting. No call, no message, is worth a—"

"I know," said Aidan resignedly, then turned to hug her. "Thank you so much. I'm just… overwhelmed."

"You're a good son," she said, "and you deserve it."

Next Aidan turned to Mark, who accepted a hug. "Thanks, Dad."

When they went back into the house Aidan went to his room to get primped for his big day, but Lizzie went down to the kitchen with her mother and father. "I can help," she said with a grin.

"Lizzie, darling, you don't need to," said Bridget, looking to Mark with some concern. He knew from what this concern stemmed, because he had observed it himself: Lizzie had been spending an inordinate amount of time with the two of them since they had reunited.

"But I want to," she said.

"Darling," said Bridget. "You know that we're back to stay, don't you?"

"I know," she said.

"You don't really need to be around us whenever we're home together," Mark added.

"I know," she said again, but looked down. "I just like seeing you together, here at home, back to normal." Mark could see her lower lip trembling. With the way Bridget reached out to touch her shoulder, she obviously knew something as wrong, too.

"Lizzie, what is it?" asked Bridget.

She looked up at Mark then Bridget with glossy eyes. "I just—" she began quietly. "I never thought it could happen before and what if it happens again and there's something I could have done if I'd only been there—" She then burst into tears, and as she did, Mark realised that not only had her foundations been shaken to the core by the near-divorce, but she felt guilty for not having done more to prevent it and scared it could happen again. From the expression on Bridget's face, she had not been aware of this, either.

"Oh, _darling_," Mark said, reaching for his daughter, enfolding her tightly into his embrace. He looked to Bridget as he kissed Lizzie on the top of the head.

"I just had to make sure," Lizzie said between sobs.

Mark stroked his daughter's hair. "Sometimes things are said in the heat of anger that one doesn't truly mean," he said tenderly. "I have already apologised, and your mother has accepted… not that I don't intend on making it up to her for the rest of my life." Bridget smiled, her own lower lip quivering. He held an arm out and Bridget joined the embrace. "I can solemnly promise you," Mark continued, meeting Bridget's gaze, "that there is no one else for me but your mother. No one else I will ever love the way I love her. No one else I would ever want."

He saw a tear spill out over Bridget's lower lid. "And there's no one or nothing that will take me from your father, Lizzie, save maybe alien abduction."

Lizzie chuckled then tightened her embrace. "Almost sounds like the world's weirdest wedding vow there," she said.

"But do you feel better?" Mark asked.

Lizzie replied in a far more easy tone, "Yeah. I do."

"I'm glad," said Bridget, then kissed her daughter's cheek with the turn of her head. "So, as regarding lunch, if you like, you may help as much as you like."

"Okay," said Lizzie, then released her dad to stand up straight, then sniffed. "We'd better get started then."

Mark raised a hand to brush the wetness away from under one of Bridget's eyes, then the other. "We'd better," he said, then smiled.

The three of them proceeded with sandwich production using cookie cutters to make the sandwiches into as many fun shapes as possible. "The odd bits and ends are fun too," declared Lizzie.

"You know, our son has turned seventeen, not four," teased Mark.

"Oh, I know," Bridget teased back. "I was there."

When Aidan arrived to the kitchen with the newly arrived Marilyn as well as Daniel, they all began to chuckle. "I love the star-shaped ones!" said Marilyn.

"Let's set up the table and eat," said Bridget. When Aidan began walking along with his sister towards the cupboard, she added, "Not you Aidan, it's your birthday." She made a clucking sound at Daniel, who made to take a seat. "Daniel, it wouldn't kill you to carry the plates over."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Mr Darcy," said Marilyn, turning to Mark with a smile. "Really good to see you again." If Mark didn't know any better, he would have called her expression 'smug'; perhaps it was.

"Good to see you, too," he replied.

"Aidan showed me his present," she said. "Wow."

"I expect you'll get to ride in it a great deal," he said. "Come, let's sit."

"I think so," she said as she took her seat. "He wants to take Lizzie and me to Grafton Underwood as soon as he can."

Mark wondered why Grafton Underwood specifically—it was not exactly a hot spot for teenagers—but didn't have time to ask because Bridget came back to the table with the last of the lunch fixings, a bowl of crisps and Coke at Aidan's request, as she said, "Here we are."

Mark was on his second sandwich, a heart this time, when he heard a tapping on the French doors simultaneous to Bridget smiling and rising from her seat. Mark turned to see Sebastian standing there with a gift in hand, waving at them through the glass. Bridget swung the door open. "What excellent timing! Please come in!" As he did she held her arms out to him for a big hug, which irrationally set off a wave of jealousy through him as Sebastian hugged back a little too tightly, and too long; after all, she had slept with the man before he had ever actually slept with Portia. "I'm so glad to see you," she said, drawing back. "And you remembered Aidan's birthday. Come have some lunch with us."

Sebastian looked to Mark, slightly confused.

"I'm pleased we can still be friends," Bridget continued, glancing towards Lizzie and Aidan. "I mean… you know. But this is such a nice surprise."

He nodded. "I'm pleased too," he said. "But I cannot claim to have incredible lunch-based intuition. Mark told me I could drop by, and I did have this for you, Aidan." He held up the present he bore.

Now it was Bridget's turn to look surprised. "Mark? When did you speak to Mark?"

"He came to see me," said Sebastian. "And I… have a feeling I shouldn't have just mentioned that."

"No, it's fine," said Mark. "I didn't say anything because I didn't think it mattered if I did. It was just something I needed to do."

"It isn't as if he punched me in the face, Bridget," said Sebastian jovially.

At this, Lizzie chuckled and Daniel commented with a laugh, "It wouldn't be the first time he'd done."

Sebastian raised a brow, but said only, "Mark just came by to reiterate that he'd like it if we all remained friends."

"Oh," said Bridget, then turned to Mark with a slightly sheepish smile for him.

As Sebastian helped himself to a couple of the small sandwiches, some crisps and a can of cola, Daniel took a long sip from his beverage, popped a sandwich end into his mouth, then stood and handed Aidan the gift bag he'd come in with. "Wish I could stay longer," he said, "but I've got an appointment."

"Oh, with Kate?" Bridget asked brightly. Mark could only speculate that this was perhaps one of her friends. He would ask later.

"Er, no."

She pouted. "Well, we're glad you could stop by at all," said Bridget.

"Should I open this now?" asked Aidan, shaking it a little.

Bridget's eyes widened; Mark thought he knew why, because the rustling within sounded very familiar, but surely Daniel wouldn't have bought _that_ for him. Bridget warned, "Aidan, I would wait."

"No, no, by all means, my seventeen-year-old godson," Daniel said, "open it right now."

Aidan's curiosity overrode his common sense and he tore into the bag and pulled out a handful of its contents. They were long strips of—

"Oh God," said Aidan, flushing deep crimson and dropping them back into the bag. Mark's guess had been right; they were a variety of condoms gleaned from several different boxes. Marilyn also flushed bright pink, looking as if she wanted to crawl away and hide in the closet. Lizzie seemed confused and Mark was not inclined to clear it up at the moment. For his part, Daniel was grinning like a devil.

"I thought who better to furnish them to you," said Daniel, "then a connoisseur such as myself?"

Bridget was blushing too, but was also smiling. "I tried to stop you," she said, placing her hand over her son's.

"I should have known better," Aidan muttered.

"Happy birthday, my boy," said Daniel, bending to kiss him on the head as if he were a small child. "Despite my resolutely wicked ways," he said, "I do think of you as the son I never had. Well. Have a good day. And _night_."

"Goodbye, Daniel," said Mark. "Thanks for stopping by."

After he headed up the stairs, Bridget tried to lighten the mood. "He really is sort of appalling at times, isn't he?"

"Sort of, yes," said Mark. "But this is not a surprise."

"He'd better not have been appalling to Kate," said Bridget.

"Here," said Sebastian, handing him the gift he'd brought. "I can promise you that this will not make you wish you could evaporate out of the room."

With a chuckle Aidan accepted the gift.

"Before you open it," Sebastian said with a grin, "you have to promise me that it's not going to end up on eBay."

This very obviously piqued Aidan's interest. "Of course it won't," he said quickly.

"You say that now," joked Sebastian. "Go on, open it."

Aidan tore away the paper, and was stunned by what he saw. "What… what's this?" he asked; even as he did, he must have known what it was. From the relatively plain cover design to the bright red "uncorrected reader's proof" stamped across the front, as well as Sebastian's own last name running down along the spine, it had to be an advance copy of his next book. "Oh, wow," Aidan breathed, then looked up.

"Couldn't think of anyone whose opinion I'd like more," Sebastian said, and it was clearly heartfelt.

"Really?" he asked.

Sebastian nodded.

"I'll start right away."

Sebastian chuckled. "It isn't a school assignment," he said. "Besides, it's your birthday, and I understand you have some fun things planned for later?" The way his voice lilted up turned his statement into a question, and Aidan went on to explain the evening's plans. Mark's attention was distracted by the feel of Bridget's hand covering his. He turned to look at her. She leaned forward.

"Lizzie is going to stay over at Annie's," she whispered, then smiled.

Instead of cake Bridget had picked up some decorated fairy cakes; there was singing and the blowing out of candles, as well as receiving presents from Lizzie and his girlfriend before Aidan and Marilyn decided it was time to go meet the rest of their friends. "I'll probably be late, Mum, Dad, so don't wait up," he said with a smile. It was like he was in on some kind of plot, which was just as well, as Mark had some other overdue business to which he needed to attend.

"Be careful," said Bridget.

"I always am," said Aidan, then gave each of his parents a big hug in turn. "I love you."

"Love you too."

Aidan looked to his sister. "Get your things, Lizzie, and we can go with you over to Aunt Jude's."

"They're all ready to go," she said, then hugged her mother and father. "Bye."

"Love you, Lizzie," said Bridget. Mark only closed his eyes and squeezed her tightly against him.

That left Sebastian, who knew it was his cue to go. "Thank you for inviting me," he said, holding his hand out to shake Mark's. Mark nodded in acknowledgment.

"Thank you for coming," said Bridget. "I know it meant a lot to him to see you, and that book… what an honour."

"He's a bright kid, and knows my work well," said Sebastian. "And I don't think he'll sugar-coat any faults he finds with it." He turned to Bridget, took her hands, then leaned and pecked her cheek. "Always a pleasure to see you."

"Until next time."

"And if you'd like to read it when Aidan's done," he said, "you're welcome to do so."

With that Sebastian left the way he'd come in.

"I'm sure he meant you," said Mark. When she didn't reply, he looked to her to find her studying him scrupulously. "What?"

"There is no need for you to be jealous," she said softly.

"You were never in love with him?" Mark asked, feeling a little embarrassed that he'd been so transparent.

"No," she said. "He's a good friend, a kindred spirit, but not my soul-mate, my other half."

Mark was not so sure Sebastian could say the same, but rather than say that, he opted for silence.

"So where would you like to go for supper?"

"I don't want to go out," he said.

"Mark," she said with a wounded expression. "You're not really upset, are you?"

"You misunderstand, love," he said, reaching his hand out to her. "I want to have dinner here at home with you. I have four months of missing you to make up." At this her face lit up with a smile; she look his hand and folded into his arms. "In fact," he said, "for old time's sake I think I'd like to order a pizza and shag on the rug in front of the fireplace."

She laughed. "It's hardly the dead of winter."

He kissed her. "Metaphorically speaking."

She kissed him back. "How flexible are you on the order of those two things?" she asked with a giggle. He kissed her again, considered her question, and realised he was still rather quite full from lunch.

"Very flexible," he murmured.

She pushed back and laughed. "Were you actually thinking about it?"

"As if there were a choice," he said. "Though we might wish to lower the blinds."

"Hm." She glanced around the room, then took his hand and stepped back, tugging forward. "Let's just go upstairs instead and take advantage of the acreage of our massive bed, shall we?"

"I suppose," he said, "but why?"

"Well, you know," she said with an impish grin, "you're getting too old to shag on the floor."

"I beg to differ," he said, tugging her hand back, pulling her up against him and devouring her with a kiss. He backed her into the lounging area, pulling her skirt up as he reached for the buttons on her shirt. He had always loved making love to her, had missed it desperately. He was also grateful that she had found someone who truly cared enough for her happiness that he had been willing to let her go; Mark realised in that moment he would have done the same, had she truly loved Sebastian. He paused in unbuttoning her shirt to draw his fingers along her skin, meeting her eyes.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Not at all," he said. "Just thinking how fortunate I am." He reached to cup her face. "I… I always thought of you, Bridget. _Always_."

He watched her mouth curl into a smile, then she laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"You must have a _very_ good imagination, then," she said, "to successfully pretend she was me."

He laughed too. "Not good enough." He grasped her hips, felt the welcome padding beneath the pads of his fingers, and made a sound of appreciation. "To me you are perfect," he growled, and with that he pulled her down onto the plush rug there.

Obviously it had not been their first tryst since reuniting, but he certainly didn't relish it any less. Every breath, every sigh, every bump that raised to meet his fingertips fuelled his passion, and in very short order had her pinned beneath him in front of the cold hearth.

In the end, after reaching a quite satisfactory climax, he retreated a little to take her in: her hair was splayed about her face, her eyes were closed, her cheeks were rosy, her lips slightly parted. Her shirt was open, her breasts bared and heaving as she recovered her breath. _Perfect_, he thought again.

She opened her eyes and sighed. "You've found the fountain of youth, have you?" He chuckled then pushed himself outright; a jolt of pain shot through his lower back and he couldn't hide it as it happened. She then chuckled. "Guess not."

He couldn't help laughing, either. She sat up, then took him in her arms and gave him a kiss.

"I suppose you have," he said with a grin.

"Hmm?"

"You're not sore."

"Mm," she said noncommittally.

"You aren't."

"Well, I didn't want to make you feel bad," she said with a smirk.

"Chuh," he said. "I suppose I was a bit more active in the process."

She tapped him lovingly on the shoulder and laughed.

They ordered a pizza for delivery and popped in a disc, spending the hours as the day faded into night with wine and pizza, a couple of fluffy films, and lots of physical touch: caresses, kisses, cuddling and just being together.

When he took her upstairs, to the bed they had slept in together the previous night, had made together that morning and would again the next, he grasped her shoulders, stroked them with his thumbs before bending to kiss her. He realised he was thinking of this time together as a sort of second honeymoon, and thus wished to treat her accordingly, with love, tenderness, and reverence.

A second honeymoon as such required something very special.

"Where are you—what are you doing?" she asked as he broke away and went over to the bureau.

"You'll see," he said with as much mystery in his voice as he could manage.

"Mark," she said impatiently.

"Patience, my love." He returned to the bed with the object of his search in his palm, hidden completely from view. "I have something for you," he said quietly. "I'd intended to give this to you… well. In December."

She furrowed her brow, then looked down as he held up his hand, which he turned over, palm up, before straightening out his fingers. She gasped then looked up to him.

"Oh, Mark," she said, tears in her eyes.

In his palm rested the ring he'd bought for her for their eighteenth anniversary. He picked it up, took her left hand, then slid it onto her ring finger, where it nestled comfortably against the wedding band she had taken to wearing once again. He had forgotten how stunning it was: a band inset with small diamonds and at the centre, a larger one cut in a princess style.

"I don't know what to say," she said, her hand trembling as she inspected it more closely. "It's amazing."

"Happy anniversary," he said, "even if it's a bit late."

She jumped up and threw her arms around his neck. "Better late than not at all," she said, sobbing happily into his shoulder.

…

"Not Katie too, Daniel."

Daniel had the good grace to look embarrassed. "She was very sweet and very receptive, but… not really my type."

Mark chuckled, overhearing this conversation between his wife and his friend. Bridget had filled him in on the fact that she had been concerned for Daniel, feared that he might soon end up eaten by Alsatians, so had been trying to fix him up with some of her single acquaintances. He had pointed out what a terrible idea it was knowing what she did about Daniel's personality, and that she had also been doing what she'd always hated her Smug Married friends doing; she'd sniffed haughtily and had said that what she was doing was _different_. Mark had not pressed for details, merely shook his head and considered what an ill-conceived idea it was; apparently, however, he had been correct as thus far Daniel had only taken them out, then shagged them, never to call again.

In the present, though, as they all had a light lunch together in the kitchen while the children were at school, she only shook her head.

"I'm giving up, Daniel," she said. "I'm just going to buy you a dog for your next birthday."

Mark laughed. "An Alsatian?" he asked.

"Yes," she said defiantly. "I'm starting not to care if you get eaten by one, and in fact, wish to make the whole process that much easier."

At this both men laughed. Daniel raised his coffee cup and took a sip. Mark heard the telephone start to ring; thinking it might be the travel agent with information about the trip, the actual second honeymoon, with which he planned to surprise Bridget, he excused himself, got up and reached or then placed the cordless receiver to his ear.

"Mark Darcy speaking," he said. The voice that responded was not the one he expected to hear.

"Mr Darcy, sir. Glad to have reached you. Your assistant said you'd be reachable at this number."

It was not the travel agent. "With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?" Mark asked; the change in his tone caught both Bridget and Daniel's attention, and they stopped speaking, instead watching Mark intently.

"My name is Morley, sir. Jeremiah Morley." The name seemed vaguely familiar to Mark, and when Morley continued, he realised why; he'd seen it in the papers. "I've just been brought on board as the new headmaster of Eton College."

"I see," Mark replied. "How may I be of assistance?"

"In an effort to… undo past wrongs, I am reaching out to you, to your son, to offer him a place with us again."

Mark felt stunned; Aidan back at Eton? It was what he'd wanted from the start; in fact, what he'd wanted since his the moment he'd learned he'd have a son. In a flash of clarity, however, he knew what his answer would be. He had spent too much time putting tradition ahead of his son's happiness, too much time thinking he'd known what was best for Aidan, for Lizzie, when it had been Bridget all along who'd known, who'd been right.

It was time to break from that tradition once and for all. It was time to forge his own rules for living.

"While I appreciate the offer," Mark said cordially, "I must decline. My son is excelling where he is now, thriving. He is quite happy in his schooling situation, and I am happy to keep him there." Bridget was suddenly at this side, touching his arm. He glanced to her. She appeared to be in disbelief.

Headmaster Morley did not say anything immediately; he seemed to be at a loss for words. "Ah," he said. "I am… surprised by your answer, if I can be frank."

"I imagine you are," he said. "Good day, sir. My best in rebuilding your school to the standards to which it once was known." With that he disconnected the call, then looked to his wife, who appeared to be utterly shocked.

"Was that…?" she began. He nodded. "Did you just…?" He nodded once more.

"Eton wanted Aidan back," he said. "I said no."

"Well, smack my arse and call me Judy," said Daniel from his position at the table; Mark had nearly forgotten he was there. "Old dogs can be taught new tricks after all."

Mark was certain Bridget would have an Alsatian-related retort ready for Daniel, but she only leapt up and threw her arms around her husband's neck. "Oh, yes," she said quietly, squeezing tightly. "Yes, they fucking can."

_The end._

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Eton College is used here in a fictional context. The people here do not exist, the events described here did not occur and any resemblance to actual people and/or events is entirely coincidental.


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